by Forrest Reid
The alternative he left unspoken. ‘I do want to please you,’ Tom said.
‘Well, if that is all, you know how.’
‘You mean by going back to Gloucester Terrace? Suppose, Uncle Horace, I had come to you, and you had got very fond of me… . That might have happened, mightn’t it?’
‘Um,’ said Uncle Horace.
‘But mightn’t it?’
‘You’re very persistent; how am I to say what might have happened?’
‘But you don’t dislike me?’
‘Well, well—suppose it had happened?’
‘If it had happened, and you had done everything you could for me, wouldn’t you think I was rather a—a squirt, if I gave you up just because some other people didn’t like you?’
‘A squirt!’
‘Yes. You must know very well what a squirt is, even if you’ve never heard the expression before.’
‘I haven’t. I understand it to mean somebody who is ungrateful?’
Tom laughed. ‘Yes, and a whole lot more. Why won’t you let me talk to you naturally, Uncle Horace? That’s what I mean by being friends.’
‘You can talk as naturally as you like, but you know my views on the subject you’ve raised, and nothing will be gained by repeating them.’
‘I don’t want you to repeat them.’
‘I came down, as I told you, to have a talk with Mr. Knox, and we had that last night.’
‘Mr. Knox likes Uncle Stephen, I think.’
‘So it would appear. He also—Well, what he said inclined me perhaps to alter my judgement a little.’
‘Uncle Horace, if I tell you something, will you believe me, will you help me, will you be my friend?’
But Uncle Horace was not to be rushed into making rash promises. ‘It depends on what the something is,’ he replied.
‘You know what it is.’
‘Then why do you want to tell me?’
Toni looked up at him gravely. ‘Because I don’t think you—understand it. You think I just want to stay here because I like it better than Gloucester Terrace, but it isn’t that: at least, it’s much more than that.’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s very hard for me to explain—unless—unless you try to understand.’ Tom’s head drooped, and his voice became husky and uncertain. ‘I—I love Uncle Stephen… . I couldn’t bear to be taken away from him… . You won’t try to do that, will you?’
Uncle Horace walked on without replying. Tom’s arm was pressing upon his, but he gave no sign of being aware of it. Neither did he repulse it. Presently he said, ‘Why are you talking like this now? On my last visit you took a very different tone. Why have you changed? There must be some reason.’
‘I suppose it’s because I haven’t Uncle Stephen with me now,’ Tom said simply.
‘That seems a poor reason.’
‘And it’s partly because you’ve been different,’ Tom added.
Uncle Horace frowned, though not at his nephew. He was looking straight before him at the landscape. ‘I think the chief trouble is that you’re a great deal too emotional,’ he brought out deliberately, but not unkindly. ‘All along, that really has been my chief reason for wishing to see you back at Gloucester Terrace.’
‘But suppose it was you I was fond of, Uncle Horace; you wouldn’t think I was too emotional then.’
‘That’s where you make a mistake. I should think you were too emotional. A great deal too emotional. Why can’t you be like other boys?’
‘Like Eric and Leonard?’ said Tom doubtfully.
Uncle Horace hesitated. ‘Well—’ He glanced at Tom and left his remark unfinished. He found another. ‘There’s not the least danger of your ever becoming like Eric and Leonard.’
‘But you’d rather I was,’ Tom said in discouragement. ‘I know what you mean. I know I’m—You see, they’re so different in every way. At any rate you have them, they’re your real nephews.’
‘Yes,’ said Uncle Horace dryly. ‘I don’t want you to be like Eric and Leonard. I don’t want you to be like anybody but yourself. The only thing I do wish is that you were a little more—normal.’
‘But—’
‘There are no “buts” about it,’ said Uncle Horace firmly. ‘It isn’t so much of the present as of the future I’m thinking. You won’t be a boy always, and you won’t always have your Uncle Stephen to depend on. He ought to see that for himself, instead of encouraging you.’
‘He doesn’t encourage me,’ said Tom. ‘Once or twice he spoke to me very much in the way you’re speaking now.’
‘Umph,’ said Uncle Horace.
‘But he did! I don’t know why you’re so against him! Will you help me, Uncle Horace? I know I’ve sometimes been cheeky to you, and—’
‘That has nothing to do with it,’ Uncle Horace interrupted testily. ‘One would imagine you thought I took a kind of spiteful pleasure in trying to come between you and Mr. Collet!’
‘I never thought that,’ Tom replied, ‘but I do think you don’t like him.’
‘Perhaps I don’t. One can’t like everybody. At any rate, now there is this fresh complication.’
Tom for a moment did not understand. ‘ What complication?’ he asked.
‘This other boy—this Stephen.’ Uncle Horace halted. ‘I think we’d better turn back.’
‘But Stephen has been here all the time,’ said Tom. ‘Ever since I was here.
‘In that case I don’t see why Mr. Collet wants you. Isn’t his grandson enough for him? Doesn’t he care for him?’
‘ Of course he cares for him… . Only, they haven’t very much in common. Anyway, Stephen is only here on a visit: he isn’t going to stay: he doesn’t want to stay.’
‘Why doesn’t he want to stay? It looks to me as if his grandfather took little or no interest in him. Otherwise he would hardly let him go about dressed as he is.’
‘That’s his own fault,’ said Tom quickly.
‘Where is he going to when he leaves the Manor? Has he said what he wants to do?’
‘Well, of course, he won’t be leaving for some time—I don’t know how long exactly. But I can tell you one thing he wants to do. He wants to go to Coombe Bridge.’
‘Why?’
‘I suppose because his people came from there. I mean the Collets—they belonged to Coombe Bridge.’
‘He only wants to see the place, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, is there any objection to his going? Does Mr. Collet object?’
‘No. We were thinking of going while he was away. We were talking about it this morning.’
‘You can’t get to Coombe Bridge from here,’ said Uncle Horace. ‘At least, not by train. I don’t know anything, about buses, but by rail it would be a most roundabout journey.’ ‘Where could we get a train?’ Tom asked. ‘Isn’t there a junction where we could change?’
‘There’s no junction that would be of any use. Coombe Bridge isn’t on this line at all—nowhere near it. You’d have to go back to town.’
Tom thought for a moment. ‘Will you be going back to-day, Uncle Horace?’
‘Yes, after lunch.’ But the words dropped rather dryly, as if he understood what the next question would be.
‘Could you take us with you?’
Uncle Horace did not reply, and Tom did not repeat his request. Neither did he relinquish Uncle Horace’s arm nor look offended. It seemed to him, after all that had taken place, that Uncle Horace had every right to refuse.
‘In the car, do you mean?’ Uncle Horace said at last. ‘I thought you wouldn’t trust yourself with me!’
‘Will you take us then? I know I oughtn’t to ask you.’
‘It will mean staying the night at Gloucester Terrace,’ Uncle Horace warned him. ‘Even if we start immediately after lunch we shan’t be home much before six.’
‘I know. Do you think they’d mind putting as up for a night? Couldn’t we go to an hotel?’
‘Two nights,’ said Uncle Horace, igno
ring the hotel. ‘You’ll have to break your journey on the way home too.’
‘Well, for two nights.’
‘How do you know we won’t keep you when we get you?’ Tom looked down. ‘I think I’ve been rather stupid about that,’ he said.
‘You weren’t so stupid. If I’d got you before I would have kept you’
‘Why have you changed?’ Tom asked.
‘I don’t know. Probably because I’m stupid.’
‘You’re not. You’re being most frightfully decent about everything, and I won’t forget it.’
‘Well—I wonder where the others have got to. Knox will be thinking he oughtn’t to have stayed.’
‘But wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me?’
‘I’ve said it. Or at any rate part of it, and we’ll let it go at that.’
‘That’s awfully, Uncle Horace… . I mean for giving us a seat in the car.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. And for the other too, I dare say. I’ll get Shanks to send a wire to your step-mother while we’re at lunch. One person, at all events, will be on the doorstep to welcome you.’
‘Who? Jane?’
‘Yes; Jane.’
Uncle Horace consulted his watch.
‘Will you say anything about Stephen in the telegram?’ Tom asked as they drew near the house.
‘Stephen? No. I can’t go into explanations about Stephen by telegram. Besides, it’s not necessary; there’s only your own room available and he’ll have to share it with you.’
‘I know. But—I don’t like going back like this. It seems pretty rotten just as if we were making use of them. I think we ought to go to an hotel.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Uncle Horace. ‘If there’s any difficulty you can stay with me.’
CHAPTER XXIV
On the way home Uncle Horace himself drove: Shanks sat beside him, and Tom and Stephen behind. The rain which had begun to fall before they left the Manor had now increased to a steady downpour; the car swished over the wet road between dripping hedges; but there was little traffic; Uncle Horace must be doing nearly fifty… .
Shortly before starting there had occurred a slight awkwardness. It had been due to Mr. Knox. Just when everything was going well Mr. Knox suggested that Stephen had better change his clothes and put on a collar. Some kind of action had been necessary, and the two boys had left the room. ‘Silly ass, what business is it of his!’ Stephen spluttered angrily while struggling into one of Tom’s shirts, the sleeves of which were a great deal too short and the neckband too narrow. Uncle Stephen’s socks fitted him, but these, and Tom’s shirt, exhausted their available resources. Therefore, when they came downstairs again, Stephen’s appearance was very little altered. It next transpired that he had not even an overcoat, but luckily Uncle Horace by this time was impatient to set off.
So they had started—more than an hour ago—dropping Mr. Knox at his lodgings—and from the beginning Stephen had been far too much interested in the car to bother about his clothes or anything else. This interest increased as the journey proceeded. He watched every movement of Uncle Horace and asked Tom innumerable questions. His conversation, indeed, had taken the tone of Eric’s and Leonard’s, lacking only the deadliness of their expert knowledge, so that the smaller boy had begun to look bored and cross.
Suddenly Stephen nudged him in the ribs, a habit Tom particularly disliked. ‘I wonder if he’d let me drive?’
‘How can you drive when you’ve never learned?’
‘All the same I think I’ll ask him.’ And Stephen actually leaned forward to tap on the screen.
Tom immediately pulled him back. ‘Don’t be stupid! As if anybody’s going to begin to teach you now! You might have more sense!’
‘Have you learned? I mean, why haven’t you?’
Tom did not reply, and Stephen pursued obstinately: ‘It looks quite easy. If he’d been my uncle I bet I’d have got him to teach me.’
‘Would you! He won’t even allow Eric to touch it.’
‘Selfish old beast!’
‘He’s not,’ said Tom, loyal to his recent alliance with Uncle Horace. ‘At any rate, everybody who has a car is like that.’ Stephen gave up the idea of driving, and looked out of the window. ‘I hope it’s not going to be like this to-morrow,’ he said. What’ll we do if it is? Do you think I could borrow a waterproof?’
Tom did not answer. To tell the truth, he felt extremely doubtful about Stephen’s reception at Gloucester Terrace, quite apart from the borrowing of waterproofs, and even though he was being introduced under the auspices of Uncle Horace. But the house didn’t belong to Uncle Horace, and for that matter Tom wasn’t at all sure of his own welcome. His step-mother couldn’t be feeling particularly friendly towards him at present: there was no reason why she should: for it wasn’t even now as if he were coming back to stay. He was only coming back to suit himself, and when you looked at it like that it did seem pretty thick! He wished they were going to an hotel.
There was no use wishing, however, and no use trying to reopen the subject with Uncle Horace. The whole thing was getting more and more difficult. All his relations with people had become difficult and unnatural. His relations with everybody—with Mrs. Deverell, with Mr. Knox, with everybody he knew—had become secretive and defensive.
‘For goodness sake, cheer up!’ Stephen said abruptly. ‘We’re not going to a funeral.’
Tom drew back into his corner. ‘I didn’t know I wasn’t cheerful.’
‘Well, you know now. It seems to me about a year since I heard you laugh.’
‘I don’t see anything to laugh at.’
‘That’s just it. It’s a little depressing.’
Tom was too offended to reply.
‘I’ve told you it will be all right,’ Stephen went on, half impatiently, half amused. ‘We’ve got to take this as a kind of game—at any rate for the time being. Look how beautifully everything went this morning.’
‘Not so beautifully as you imagine.’
‘You mean Knox. What does it matter about Knox? You’d think he was a bishop.’
‘It’s all very well talking like that,’ Tom burst out hotly, ‘but there’ll be Mr. Flood too. Mr. Knox is too decent to say much, but Mr. Flood knows all about Uncle Stephen.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘He does: he’s his solicitor: and he’ll know very well you weren’t telling the truth.’
‘He may think so, but he can’t know without making inquiries.’
‘He will make them.’
Stephen yawned. ‘Well, let him,’ he returned carelessly. ‘You’re very hard to please. I thought you’d have liked my story, even though parts of it were so sad… . Uncle Horace was just a little casual about the sad parts, don’t you think?’
The ghost of a smile flickered across Tom’s face, and Stephen immediately smiled back.
‘All the same,’ Tom went on, ‘Mr. Flood will find out. He’s bound to. He’s in charge of Uncle Stephen’s private affairs. You’ll have to give him proper information—I mean, addresses and that kind of thing—and then he’ll write at once, or telegraph.’
‘He won’t. He’ll wait first to see if Uncle Stephen comes back. Can’t you understand that they must think he’ll come back? They don’t know what you know, and they’ll leave it to him to decide whether he has a grandson or not. I shouldn’t be surprised myself if he had several.’
‘Then why did you invent all that story? It won’t help in the long run, and I never told so many lies in my life.’
‘They’re not lies—not real lies—they were forced on us.’
‘They weren’t. Not those particular ones anyway. They were made up just for your own pleasure and because you thought them funny. They weren’t a bit funny. All you did was to make Uncle Horace and Mr. Knox think Uncle Stephen wicked.’
‘Wicked?’
‘Yes—immoral.’
It was his last protest, however, and he did not speak again until he said, ‘
We’re nearly there.’
Uncle Horace had in fact begun to slow down, for they had reached the outlying houses of the city, and in a few minutes more were on the tram-lines, threading their way through an increasing traffic. It was nearly six, and in spite of the rain the streets were full of people. Stephen glanced about him eagerly. The car branched off the main road, and Tom too stared out of the window. It was all exactly the same as when he had seen it last. There were the same people coming home from business to the same houses; the same message-boys on the same bicycles; the same milk vans; the same dogs; even most of the advertisements on the hoardings were unchanged; and yet he felt as if he had been away half a lifetime… .
The next turning would be Gloucester Terrace… . There it was: there was the home: there was the next-door cat on the window-sill.
The car drew up.
But in spite of Uncle Horace’s prediction Jane was not waiting on the steps to receive them. Nor was anybody else: they had to ring twice; and then it was Eric who opened the door.
‘Hello!’ he said, while he stared past Tom at the other boy. ‘Go on in; go on in,’ cried Uncle Horace irritably from the rear. ‘Don’t stand there blocking the way.’
‘Sorry.’ Eric drew to one side, and at the same time both the kitchen and the dining-room doors opened.
Through the former emerged Mrs. Barber. ‘Well, Tom!’ she exclaimed, and then she too caught sight of Stephen.
The brief distraction enabled Tom to avoid an embrace: he shook hands instead.
‘This is Tom’s cousin, Stephen Collet,’ Uncle Horace announced fussily. He waved a general introduction—‘Eric—Leonard—Jane.’
Eric and Leonard shook hands; Jane was still hugging Tom; Mrs. Barber, looking very much mystified, seemed uncertain what to do.
‘Tom had better show Stephen his room,’ Uncle Horace went on, taking charge of the situation. ‘You got my wire, of course.’ His intention, Tom thought, was to remove him and Stephen out of the way while he explained matters.
He obeyed the hint, and even before they had reached the second flight of stairs he heard the dining-room door closing. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Jane had not followed the others, but was standing in the hall gazing after him, her attitude exactly that of a dog who has not been taken for the expected walk. Tom put his finger to his lips, beckoned, and swiftly and silently Jane sped up the stairs.
