by Forrest Reid
Tom glared, but Miss Charlemont sat mutely expectant, an expression of profound interest on her mild and innocent face.
Yes, it was romantic—and unusual. Uncle Stephen, it seemed, some seventeen years before, had revisited Italy, and during this visit he had married, and he had married a nun. He had heard her singing in chapel and had fallen in love with her voice. There had been an elopement—more in the nature of an abduction, it appeared, as Stephen added fresh details—followed by a year of perfect happiness. The story grew more and more picturesque as the narrator warmed to his task. Tom glanced at Miss Charlemont and hastily averred his eyes. There she sat, lapping, it all up like cream, an absorbed expression on her face. Couldn’t she see how preposterous it was? But no; she accepted it; and a deeply sentimental sigh escaped her when Stephen ended dramatically: ‘My mother died two days after I was born.’
Miss Charlemont awoke out of her trance. ‘It’s really wonderful!’ she breathed. ‘And you told it wonderfully, Stephen—so sympathetically; it brought the whole thing up before me! It’s almost like a novel by Marion Crawford—in fact very like a novel by Marion Crawford—I’ve forgotten its name—but where your father listened day after day to the nuns singing in chapel, and to that one voice—!’
As for Tom, he had sat through this brilliant performance with a darkening countenance. He had known that Miss Charlemont could not be told the truth, but there was a difference between not telling her the truth and mystifying her to this extent. That seemed to him as ungentlemanly as it was unnecessary. After all, they were her guests. ‘I think you’ve drunk enough of that stuff,’ he suddenly said across the table, and in a tone that brought Miss Charlemont’s eyes round to him with a startled look.
She hesitated, and perhaps something in Stephen’s manner did at last strike her, for she murmured timidly, ‘I think, dear, you may perhaps find that burgundy rather heavy on such a hot day. Wouldn’t you like to mix it with a little soda water?’
Stephen, his hand still grasping the neck of the decanter, stopped dead, and Tom went on coldly: ‘If you’re going to do all you said you wanted to do we ought to be starting soon.’ Miss Charlemont again interposed, and Tom knew from her manner that she resented the way he had spoken. But he didn’t care: he wasn’t going to have any more of this kind of thing. ‘You want, I expect, to see the Rectory and the church,’ Miss Charlemont murmured. ‘They are both quite near: in fact you can see the church steeple from the window.’
Stephen had relapsed into silence: he even had the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself. He glanced deprecatingly at Tom, but Tom turned away. He was really angry, and he would have been angrier still if Miss Charlemont had not been so foolish. But by the time coffee was brought in she had completely forgotten her misgivings. Perhaps she had never felt any, and had only been annoyed with Tom for interfering. At all events, it was perfectly clear when at last they rose to go, that she would have liked to have kept Stephen with her for the rest of the afternoon and to have sent Tom to explore the church and the Rectory alone. She told Stephen she was going to write that evening to his father, and before saying good-bye made him promise he would come and stay with her.
‘Sorry,’ Stephen began, the moment the door had closed behind them.
‘You needn’t have made fun of her to her face!’ Tom exploded. ‘Especially after she’d been so decent.’
‘But I didn’t. I mean it wasn’t really of her I was making fun. It was of the whole thing—of you and me and our explanations and all the rest of it. Besides, I can’t feel that it matters a straw what I say or what I do… . I know it does matter,’ he added hastily, ‘but I can’t feel that it does. And then—Somehow, I can’t think of it as real. I can’t think of Miss Charlemont as real. The only person who seems real—besides myself—is you: and that, I suppose, is because you belong to both times.’
‘So does Miss Charlemont.’
‘She doesn’t. She’s no more like my Alice Charlemont than that monument was like the old village pump. Hang it all,’ he went on half impatiently, ‘whatever you may be doing, I’m living in a kind of fairy tale. You ought to remember that. I don’t think you’d find it so easy yourself.’
‘I dare say it’s difficult,’ Tom admitted, relenting a little. ‘But I’m doing all I can to try to make it less so, and you might help me.’
‘I’m going to help you. I want to help you—naturally because I think something must be done pretty soon… . I think it was partly coming back to this place made me like that. It was just—I don’t know… . But—’ He walked on for a few yards with his hands in his pockets. ‘Don’t you see, there’s a way I might look at it all that would make it pretty beastly. I’ve tried not to look at it like that; I’ve tried to make the best of it, and I don’t think you’re quite fair. I know you want to be, but I don’t think it’s possible for you to be fair to both me and Uncle Stephen. Its quite natural that you should choose him: only—you oughtn’t to forget there is this other side.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tom contritely.
‘It’s all right,” Stephen answered. ‘You’ve been as decent as anybody could be. It’s not your fault: it’s just the way things are.’
‘I only meant that by talking the way you did at lunch—’
‘I know. I’ll try not to do it again. I knew at the time you didn’t like it.’
But Tom felt unhappy. He had not realized this other point of view: he had only realized Uncle Stephen’s. He could understand it now. He could imagine what his own emotions would have been had he suddenly been projected into the future. He would not have taken it nearly so courageously and cheerfully as Stephen had. To be alone like that—for that was what it amounted to! And Stephen must feel he was unwanted. The only friend he had was Tom himself, and there could be no illusion in his mind that Tom wanted him.… And yet, he did want him. It was only that he wanted Uncle Stephen more… .
They walked on in silence, but Tom had the impression that their pace was insensibly slackening. It was when the road took a sharp turn, however, that he became sure of it, for Stephen now gripped him by the hand. That’s our home,’ he said. ‘I’m not going any closer.’
He was frowning, and Tom saw that something had begun to affect him powerfully. Yet in spite of his words, after a moment or two he walked on. Thus they reached the entrance to the Rectory and passed it, Stephen with his eyes fixed on the road ahead.
‘Shall we turn back?’ Tom asked. It was merely a suggestion, for he was now hopelessly in the dark as to what Stephen wanted to do. They were within a stone’s throw of the old church, and all around were the quiet grassy mounds and headstones of a country graveyard.
Stephen shook his head. What was passing in his mind Tom could not imagine, but he raised the latch of the wooden gate and they went in.
There were few trees. The place was exposed to whatever winds might blow. The low stone walls, the straggling gorse-bushes and ragged bramble and heather, gave little or no shelter. It must be a bleak spot enough in spring and autumn and winter, Tom thought; yet on this grey, still, summer afternoon, which had clouded over in the last hour, it was beautiful and peaceful. The gravel paths were smooth and black; the place, though it had this lonely appearance, was not ill-tended.
Stephen led him straight to a grave near the further wall. Tom saw a plain, rounded headstone, on which names and dates were cut. His own mother was not buried here, nor was his grandfather. The names most recently recorded were those of his great-grandfather and great-grandmother:—Henry Collet, who had died in 1889; Margaret Collet, who had died two years later. They were Uncle Stephen’s father and mother: they were the present Stephen’s father and mother: the two boys read the brief record, each to himself, and turned away. They sat down on the rough low wall. In the valley below them, across intervening cornfields, they could see the houses of Coombe Bridge.
For perhaps ten minutes they sat there without speaking: then Stephen said, ‘Will you come back with me to
Kilbarron?’
Tom wakened out of his daydream. ‘To Kilbarron? But—’
‘I know. Will you come with me?’
‘To-day? This afternoon?’
‘It’s the first thing I’ve ever asked you to do.’
‘Yes, I’ll come,’ Tom said.
‘Then we’ll go now.’
They got down from the wall and, without another glance at the grave, left the churchyard and started on their walk back to the village.
‘Why do you want to go to Kilbarron?’ Tom asked, for such a desire, if it were more than a mere whim, seemed to him strange.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll know when we get there.’
‘They’ll be expecting us at Gloucester Terrace, of course,’ Tom went on softly. ‘We told them what train we’d catch.’
‘Yes.’
‘And they won’t be expecting us at the Manor: it will be shut up for the night. Mrs. Deverell will have gone home, and very likely she’ll have gone to bed. We won’t be able to get in.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of the Manor,’ Stephen answered. ‘I was thinking of the other home: we’ll be able to get in there.’
But having said this, for a long time he kept his lips closed, and Tom, walking beside him, left him to his thoughts.
His own mood, though it had changed less completely than Stephen’s, was not what it had been in the morning. The aspect of Coombe Bridge itself struck him as different. Perhaps it was because the day had altered, and with it the colour of everything: perhaps only because places are always different when you are leaving them.
Stephen broke his silence at last. ‘I think we’ll buy our food here,’ he said. ‘I suppose a loaf and a pat of butter will do. We’ll have to see if we can get a bus.’
It was odd how he seemed to be acting now with a definite purpose, and yet not to know what that purpose was.
‘I’m sure there won’t be a bus,’ Tom said.
‘There must be some way of getting there, and it’s not four o’clock yet. We’ll find our way somehow. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No.’
The grocer from whom they bought their bread and butter could tell them little about the journey, but a stationer proved more helpful. He happened to be a motor-cyclist, and he not only sold them a map and marked it, but also worked out carefully the stages of their route, wrote down two or three buses which would take them part of the way, and assured them that they might expect to reach Kilbarron not later than half-past nine or ten.
This seemed to be all right, and the first few miles were covered even more quickly than their time-scheme had allowed for. It was not till they were more than half-way that they began to lose ground. Then a failure of one of their buses meant a long extra trudge, and it began to look as if midnight was more likely to be the hour of their arrival. Tom had begun to wonder if he would be able to last out the journey. He did not mention this, however; he was determined to keep on as long as he could. Sometimes they got a lift which took them a short distance, but after each of these lifts he found it increasingly difficult to keep up with Stephen’s steady tramp. Fortunately, Stephen from the beginning had been silent and preoccupied. When they descended from their last bus ride—either disappointingly brief or remarkably rapid, for it seemed to Tom that it was over in a flash—it was ten minutes to twelve, and they still had, according to the map, a journey of several miles before them.
It was a perfect night for walking—windless and clear, with a full moon to light their way. The country was unknown to them; they were not approaching the Manor from the Kilbarron side; but Tom was too weary to take an interest in his surroundings, or indeed to see anything but the high thorn hedges and the white road. After another mile or two his feet began to drag ominously. He had done his best and he was still determined not to give in, but when he sat down on a bank to tie his shoelace he felt as if he could not get up again.
‘Would you like to rest for a few minutes?’ Stephen asked. ‘I don’t think it can be very much further.’
Tom shook his head. ‘Resting will only make it worse.’ He got stiffly to his feet.
Yet though he could hardly put one foot before the other, his spirit was content. He was happy—happy and tired—very happy and very tired. Ever since they had left Coombe Bridge, though they had scarcely spoken a word, he had felt like this, and as if he were being drawn into closer and closer communion with Stephen. Or was it Stephen …? When he had been asked a minute ago if he would like to rest—was that Stephen …? Yes, of course it had been Stephen: Stephen was walking beside him now. Only—somehow—It was because he was half asleep, and the pale light was so strange, and everything was so quiet, as if they had the whole world to themselves… . He dragged on, his feet white as the white road. He hung on Stephen’s arm, hung more and more, and this was strange too, because he knew he would not have done so a few hours ago. But now he didn’t mind—didn’t mind showing how tired he was—felt there was no need to pretend about anything. There had been only one person with whom he had ever felt like this, felt happy in this particular way, this way that left no room for doubt or fear, that was without shadow, because it contained the assurance of giving no less than it received. He was happy, and, because he was happy with this kind of happiness, a certain childishness which was an essential part of his spirit no longer feared to peep out… .
But he was tired. He had long ago given up trying to make out what way they were taking: he left it entirely to Stephen. He was not very clearly conscious of anything now except that he was walking beside Stephen down an endless and moon-washed road… .
All at once they stopped. It had seemed to Tom that they would walk-on and on for ever, and this sudden pause brought him up with a sharp jerk, the effect of which was as much mental as physical. He realized that for the last twenty minutes he must have been in a state bordering on somnambulism. He blinked.
Stephen was looking at him oddly. ‘Well, don’t you know where you are?’
Instantly Tom knew, and when he knew he began to recognize. But he sighed. ‘Stephen, I simply can’t climb that wall. You go. I’ll lie down underneath it and you can come and find me in the morning.’
‘The gate’s a long way round,’ said Stephen doubtfully.
‘I know. The gate’s impossible. Now we’ve stopped I can’t go on again: all the works have run down.’
‘Come: I’ll give you a leg up.’
‘I need two legs, and two arms: my own feel like melted candles.’
‘You’re a terrible chap: come on now.’
Stephen lifted him bodily and Tom, with an effort that narrowly escaped landing him on his head on the other side, managed to get astride the wall. He stretched down his hands.
‘Don’t bother,’ said Stephen, ‘I can manage all right.’ And he clambered up beside Tom; then dropped down into the long grass.
Tom dropped also, and Stephen caught him. ‘Steady—steady!’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ murmured Tom.
‘We’re practically there.’ He waited a moment and then added, ‘Look here, I’m going to take you on my back. Climb up.’
‘You’re certainly not, Tom declared, pushing him away. Stephen yielded unwillingly. ‘But you look dead-beat. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘I didn’t know sooner. It’s always like this. I can go on for a long time, and then there’s a sudden collapse. It’s well, isn’t it, we didn’t start to go round the world together the way you wanted to do?’
‘It was stupid of me not to see you were so tired.’
‘I ought to have been able to do it,’ said Tom. ‘It doesn’t seem to have affected you much.’
‘I’m used to tramping. Besides, I am tired. And very sleepy too. It will be daylight soon.’
Tom began to walk, but with uncertain steps. ‘Do you know your way, Stephen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll leave it to you. If you go first I’ll follow.’
But
they had nor gone a hundred yards before he stumbled.
Stephen stopped. ‘Look here, I’m going to carry you.’
‘You’re not.’
Stephen sat down. ‘Get on my shoulders. I can carry you better that way than on my back.’
‘I don’t want to,’ said Tom.
‘Well, I want you to. Don’t be obstinate.’
‘It seems so silly.’
‘It’s much sillier to make a fuss about it. If I’d suggested it on an ordinary occasion, simply as a joke, you’d have thought nothing of it.’
‘Yes, but then I wouldn’t have been giving in.’
He made no further difficulties, however, and Stephen, grasping him by the ankles, rose from the ground.
‘Catch hold of my hair; that will steady you.’
Tom fumbled.
‘Don’t tug it,’ said Stephen. ‘Hold my ears instead. You won’t hurt me: the least little touch will give you your balance.’ Tom took an ear in each hand, while Stephen trudged on. ‘You’ll be able to guide me that way, too; but don’t pull too hard.’
Tom gave a small pull, and Stephen moved to the left.
‘That s right: you’ve a better view than I have, so keep a lookout.’
‘I love you, Stephen,’ Tom whispered.
‘You’re not to think of that now.’
‘How can I help thinking of it when I’m holding your ears.’
‘Well, think of it then, but don’t talk about it: I have to watch where I’m going.’
‘I mean you yourself,’ Tom went on, ‘as you are now. I wanted to tell you, because—I mayn’t be able to tell you later on.’
Stephen did not reply, nor did Tom himself very clearly understand what he meant. Suddenly, while he was thinking, there was the old familiar broken-down wall before them. Stephen stepped carefully through one of the gaps and over the loose stones. In a minute or two, threading his way between the trees, he had found the path. The way was now easy: a further fifty yards brought them out into the open—into the garden—with the low creepered house before them, and the stone boy watching them from his dark pool. Tom’s heart stirred with an unaccountable emotion. He clambered down from Stephen’s shoulders and stood beside him on the grass. The silence dropped like oil upon his senses. Every leaf hung as if painted on the air.
