by Forrest Reid
But these reflections did not throw much light on the present dilemma. Perhaps Uncle Stephen would be there in the morning, and in that case nobody outside the Manor need ever know he had left it. It would be sufficient to tell Mrs. Deverell that he had come back after she and Sally had gone home. Tom felt a sudden desire to visit the other room and see if he had come back. The impulse brought him to his feet. It held him trembling with excitement, suspense, and longing. It might be that Uncle Stephen was there now! He took a step forward and then stopped. He must be prepared to find only Stephen: he must not be disappointed if he found only Stephen. Nor would it follow, because Uncle Stephen had not yet returned, that he would not have returned by morning. The change might take place gradually. It was only three hours since he had left Stephen, and Stephen might have lain awake for a long time. With such warnings he fortified himself, determined not to move until he had gained complete self-command.
He lit a candle, crossed the room, and opened his door. On the threshold he stood for a minute, peering out into the darkness.
His naked feet made no sound on the thick carpet. He walked along the passage till he reached the broad central flight of stairs descending to the shadowy hall, but here again something seemed to hold him, and to hold him longer. Noiseless though his movements had been, he felt they had attracted attention. Not human attention, but that of the house. It knew he was there—knew what he was doing, just as each evening it knew of the departure of Mrs. Deverell and Sally. His unwonted activity at an hour when he should have been in bed and asleep had disturbed it; it knew someone was abroad, that something unusual was happening, and there had been a moment perhaps when the nature of its response had hung in the balance. Then, as he had crept on from one to the other of its outspread wings, there had been a soft sigh of recognition. For it was Uncle Stephen’s house, and it regarded him just as Uncle Stephen’s watchdog would have regarded him—as belonging to Uncle Stephen, as belonging to itself.
He had never been afraid of it. Even now, the necromantic beauty of its shadowy stair and glimmering window held him only because it seemed to breathe of Uncle Stephen’s presence. The house protected him; it would allow no evil thing to harm him. He entered the passage which led to Uncle Stephen’s room. He reached Uncle Stephen’s door and gently turned the handle. Not hurriedly, but without hesitation, and holding his candle before him and above the level of his eyes, he approached the bed.
He stood there for a moment with held breath. He had made no sound either in opening or dosing the door; the sleeper had not stirred; but the sleeper was Stephen. One arm lay outside the been counterpane: Stephen’s face was flushed, his breathing low and sweet. As Tom stood gazing down at him his heart melted. What dreams were passing through that mind? Probably none: he was sleeping too soundly to be dreaming: but he looked so young and guileless!
Tom turned away, and the light of his candle floated over the watching Hermes. He approached nearer till it reached the slightly bowed head. He took off his dressing-gown and knelt down before the pedestal, placing his candle on the floor beside him… .
He remembered the night of his arrival at the Manor. The memory brought with it a longing that he might again be blessed. Or perhaps memory itself had been quickened by that longing, which grew and grew, while with shut eyes he waited. A spirit was near him—whether the spirit of Uncle Stephen or the spirit of the God, he did not know. But the response he yearned for washed over him in wave after wave, brimming the room, holding him closely clasped and breathing into his breath… .
He remembered Uncle Stephen’s words—that in approaching the God in a spirit of love and worship he became a priest. He remembered that in ancient Greece there had been boy priests. He remembered the beautiful opening of Euripides’ play, where, after the speech of Hermes, the young boy Ion decorates the porch of Apollo’s temple with laurel branches, drops the lustral water on the ground, and chases the birds away. The scene was infinitely lovely as it floated before him now. It was as if the sunlight of that morning long ago had been caught and imprisoned in the words, to burst out with renewed glory when their spell was whispered. And all this loveliness was eternal. It could never fade until the earth grew cold and dead, or some cloud descended on the world, darkening men’s minds until nobody was left who sought for and loved it… .
His troubles dropped from him. He believed that the God had welcomed him, and was his lover, his friend. This was Hermes the shepherd, Hermes who, Uncle Stephen had said, guarded young boys, and would guard him. His eyes half shut, and on his face was a strange dreamy expression, gentle and happy. Nobody had ever seen him quite like this, and nobody ever would, for he was more than half out of his body, on the confines of another world. The whole house, he now knew, was the spiritual creation of Uncle Stephen and this God; and here, in this room, he was in its very heart, which was beating in tune with his own.
When he rose at last, his knees were stiff and sore and for a moment he staggered, but it was as if his mind had been bathed in some fresh mountain stream, and he knew that he could sleep. Putting the candle on the table by the bed, he looked down again at the slumbering Stephen. To Tom the whole room was still humming and vibrating with a secret life. This impression was so vivid, indeed, as to produce in him the strange feeling that merely by stretching out his hands he could make the surrounding air break into a flame. But Stephen slept on. Nothing that had taken place had disturbed him. It had passed over him and round him, leaving him untouched, as the fire had played harmlessly over the wise men in their burning fiery furnace. And gradually for Tom too its waves began to subside. His mind grew quiet, and he became all at once aware that his God was, pouring sleep upon him—softly, ceaselessly, compellingly. Tom’s eyes slid round to him, liquid and dark. The pale, honey-coloured marble was still warm and breathing, but the spirit was only lingering there till Tom himself should be safely tucked in and his eyes sealed. Sleep—sleep,’ a faint voice whispered. Sleep—’
Tom smiled drowsily. He must go back to his own room; but somehow his own room seemed miles and miles away, and to leave his present sanctuary would be like going out into a cold, wet, winter’s night.
There was no longer anything but silence. The whisper had died away, but its command was overwhelming. Tom’s chin sank forward on his breast. He blinked and opened his eyes: he was dropping asleep on his feet. Stephen had pushed aside one of the pillows, which had fallen to the floor. Tom replaced it: then crept under the clothes and blew out the candle.
CHAPTER XXIII
The miracle had not happened: Tom seemed to know that even in his dreams, for he heaved a deep sigh before his eyes opened. Instinctively he clung to the sleepiness that prevented complete realization. He put his arms round Stephen’s neck and wriggled himself closer till their heads lay on one pillow. He hoped it was very early, and that they need not get up for a long time. He did not want to awake; the day before him, he knew, was going to be full of trouble; he put his other arm round Stephen and buried his nose in the short crisp hair above his ear. He listened to twittering bird notes, he felt rather than saw the drowsy sunlight floating through the open window.
But Stephen would not let him stay like this. Tom might snuggle up against him and murmur that he wanted to go to sleep again, but Stephen was wide awake. He proposed getting up and going for a swim. ‘I had the rummiest dream,’ he declared. ‘At least, it seems so now.’ He gave Tom a little shake. ‘Are you listening? Wake up!’
‘I’m not asleep, said Tom. But a warm delightful languor was diffused through his body, and he nestled closer.
‘You’re next door to it. Remember, I don’t intend to tell you this twice… . You’ll be sorry, too, because it’s very much in your line: in fact you were in it… . All right, I’ll not tell you. And please don’t breathe into my ear.’
Tom slightly altered his position. ‘Is that better?’ he asked. ‘Not very much, and I don’t see why you aren’t in your own bed. You certainly weren’t here
when I went to sleep last night… . It was about your uncle—my dream. I dreamt I was in the room downstairs—the room with all the books—and you were there too.’
‘Yes?’ Tom still kept his eyes tight shut.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Stephen, giving him another shake. ‘Don’t you see how queer it was? Of course it must have been the result of what you told me yesterday, but it was queer all the same.’
‘Why?’ Tom whispered. ‘I don’t see anything queer about it.’
‘Well, it was: you’ll understand why presently. Do lie over a bit: I’m far too hot: besides, you’re choking me.’
Tom moved grudgingly. You might be more comfortable,’ he mumbled. But Stephen had spoiled his own drowsy sensations, and he lay on his back blinking up at the ceiling. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
Stephen stretched out his arms and sat up. He looked down at Tom. ‘Nothing happened. I was just there: it’s not that that was queer.’
‘Was I in the room?’
‘Yes; I’ve said so already: I knew you weren’t listening.’
‘What was I doing?’
‘You were sitting on the hearthrug untangling a heap of string and winding it round a stick.’
‘I did do that once.’
‘Very likely. Most people have wound a ball of string.’
‘What was queer then?’ said Tom, with a shade of impatience. Was Uncle Stephen there?’
‘I’m coming to that… . Uncle Stephen was there in one sense.’ He paused deliberately, but Tom would ask no further questions. ‘He was there in the sense that you called me Uncle Stephen… . But what really was queer was the way I thought of you.’
‘Thought of me?’
‘Yes. Though I don’t mean “thought” exactly. It was really the way I felt about you. I was frightfully fond of you. I didn’t know anybody could care for another person so much.’
To this Tom made no answer, and Stephen after a moment went on. ‘You see, I’ve always liked you quite well; but this was a good deal more. In fact, it strikes me now as rather absurd.’
‘Yes, it would,’ said Tom.
‘Well, hang it all, you’re not an angel! You’re a pretty averagely bad boy—with faint streaks of a better nature.’
Tom buried his face in the pillow. ‘Is that all?’ he asked in a muffled voice.
‘Yes, I think so.’ Stephen kicked aside the clothes and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He took off his pyjamas—Uncle Stephen’s they were—and proceeded to test the muscles of his arms. Tom, peeping out at him, watched this latter performance moodily. Somehow it had the effect of making the return of Uncle Stephen seem infinitely improbable, though last night it had seemed imminent. But nothing could be more remote from Uncle Stephen than this boy light-heartedly parading his nakedness and rejoicing in the strength of his body.
Stephen stood beside the bed, looking down at him and smiling. ‘Well?’ he said_
‘Well what?’ muttered Tom. ‘Aren’t you going to put some clothes on?’
Stephen smiled more broadly. ‘Not at present. Aren’t you going to get up?’
Tom slowly assumed a sitting posture, and still more slowly put his feet to the ground. Stephen bent down and, half lifting him, pulled him out into the middle of the floor. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘don’t be so frightfully dumpy about it.’
‘I can’t help it,’ Tom muttered. The pleasanter Stephen was to him, the more difficult everything became. He half wished he would be unpleasant—or at any rate that he didn’t look so nice. He wouldn’t look at him. He put his hand against Stephen’s breast and pushed him back almost roughly. ‘I’m going to my own room. Your bathroom is the first door on the left.’
‘Come and take your bath with me.’
‘No… . Leave me alone, Stephen! You’re a bully—that’s what you are.’
‘Well, I like that. When a minute ago you were hugging me.’
‘Yes, and you wouldn’t let me.’ He struggled free, and picking up his dressing-gown, ran along the passage back to his own room.
He got into his bath and let the water run over him. But he did not enjoy it, his mind was too full of worries and perplexities. A few days ago he would have loved having Stephen here! And now, though Stephen was far more friends with him than he had ever been before, he was getting no good out of him, it was all wasted, because he couldn’t be happy. While he was drying himself and dressing he tried to review the situation dispassionately. How could it go on as it was? Mrs. Deverell would think it strange that there was no letter for him this morning from Uncle Stephen. Perhaps she would expect one herself. And it would be only natural for Uncle Stephen to write her a note to explain matters and give instructions about what was to be done in his absence. Tom wondered if the news of his absence had already leaked out. With Mrs. Deverell, Sally, George, and Robert all knowing about it, it could not be long before it became public property. It was not as if such a thing had ever happened before. It would be regarded as an event, a mystery: Mrs. Deverell seemed to have taken that view from the first. It would be discussed; there would be all kinds of gossip; soon it would reach the ears of Mr. Flood and Mr. Knox, and Mr. Knox very likely would think it his duty to call—not out of curiosity, but just out of friendliness. On the top of this there was the money problem. Tom knew nothing of how the house was run—whether Mrs. Deverell received an allowance for household expenses, or whether Uncle Stephen paid for things himself by cheque. He supposed the bills could be allowed to run on, but he knew George and Robert were paid weekly, for he had seen Uncle Stephen paying them. What was he to do about that? They would need their wages for their own expenses, and it wouldn’t be fair to keep them waiting. He would have to borrow from somebody—and the only person he could think of was Mr. Flood. Poor Tom, as he completed his toilet and surveyed himself in the mirror of his wardrobe, looked as if all the cares of the world were on his shoulders.
He came downstairs to breakfast, and instead of sympathy found Mrs. Deverell regarding him with a grim reserve, and Stephen with amusement. True, the amusement was mingled with liking—Stephen had distinctly altered in this respect—but that didn’t make it more helpful so far as their problem was concerned. Tom wished Mrs. Deverell a subdued good morning and took Uncle Stephen’s place at the head of the table. He began to fumble with the tea-pot, which Mrs. Deverell at once removed from his hands.
‘No letter from your uncle?’ Stephen inquired pleasantly. Tom blushed and gave him an angry look, but he was obliged to answer, because Mrs. Deverell was listening. Why couldn’t she clear out? ‘The post isn’t in yet,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, I don’t expect a letter for a day or two.’
He wondered if he could forge a letter. It might help to keep Mrs. Deverell quiet, and he had gone no far that it did not seem to matter much if he added forgery to his other crimes. When the meal was over he and Stephen went out on to the lawn. On an ordinary occasion Tom would have been full of suggestions for passing the morning. There was still his raft to be built, there was still the river to be explored. But now he felt too restless to settle down to anything, and at the same time was conscious of a reluctance to go far from the house, though nothing was to be gained by loitering there, and he knew it would be better if he could distract his mind from brooding.
‘Did you remember to make your bed, Stephen?’ he suddenly asked:
‘No. Why? I didn’t know I was supposed to make it.’
Tom sighed. ‘It’s only that Mrs. Deverell may think it queer that you slept in Uncle Stephen’s room.’
‘Shall I go back and make it now?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter: she’s sure to have discovered it by now. Anyway, I forgot to unmake mine, so she’ll know where we both were.’
‘Then you didn’t go to bed last night after you left me?’
‘No.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I sat up reading till I came to your room.’
Stephen laughed. ‘It seems to
me we’re pretty poor conspirators.’
‘It’s hard to remember everything,’ said Tom. ‘She can think what she likes,’ he added gloomily. ‘I don’t care.’
‘Of course not. Anybody can see you don’t care.’
‘Well, I can’t help it,” muttered Tom. He sat down on a garden bench and stared morosely at a thrush trying to swallow an uncomfortably large worm. But he felt Stephen was right and that he was not showing a proper spirit. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Uncle Stephen was coming back. There had been more than one sign to encourage him. There had been his vigil of last night. There had been those few minutes yesterday when Stephen had seemed just on the point of recalling everything. He hadn’t succeeded; the result had been only two or three unintelligible words; but still—especially when taken with the dream he had told Tom that morning—there had been enough to prove he was not completely Stephen. A final state of equilibrium had not been reached; some kind of spiritual ebb and flow must be going on under the surface. Of course, it might be that Uncle Stephen was losing, not gaining, power in this conflict, but Tom would not believe that. The chief impediment, he felt, was that the boy who had dropped down now on to the green bench beside him and was gazing idly into the distance, did not want to be anything but what he was. He wasn’t trying. He was just enjoying himself, and enjoying teasing Tom, and from all Uncle Stephen had told him Tom knew that on those other occasions the will and the desire had been primary agents.
