by Forrest Reid
A fire was roaring good-temperedly in the kitchen range, and he held out his hands to the genial blaze, seeing which, Cook drew forward a chair and plumped him into it. “What the mistress will say I don’t know!” she began. “I’m going to make her morning tea now, for she likes it early, and it’s gone seven.”
She stood over him, as if uncertain what to do next, while Rose, who had returned with her coal-bucket, also hovered near. Both, Tom saw, having got over their first consternation, were now consumed with a burning curiosity, yet at the same time they seemed worried—Cook especially. “You look just about worn out,” she commiserated, “which I’m sure is little wonder.” Turning from him, she shook her head dubiously before proceeding to make tea in two pots—one for the present company, he supposed, and one for Granny.
“What am I to tell her?” the more lackadaisical Rose murmured, casting an uneasy glance at the tray Cook was preparing.
The question was not addressed to Tom, but it was he who answered it. “You needn’t tell her anything,” he said. “I’m going up myself, and I’ll tell her.”
This brought Cook round to him again for a further inspection. “You can’t,” she declared peremptorily. “Leastways, not till I’ve cleaned you up a bit first.”
She had poured him out a cup of tea, which he drank, and then began munching biscuits from the tin. The tea revived him, and he drank a second cup; while all the time they watched him as if he were Edward or Alfred eating nuts or bread-and-milk. “I’ll clean myself afterwards,” he mumbled, with his mouth full of biscuit. “I’m going to speak to Granny first. What’s the good of waiting—when she’ll want to see me anyhow. . . . Besides, there’s nothing to tell—except that I’m here, and arrived too early, and got into the kennel.”
“You mean to say you’ve been walking all night—and by yourself—and all those miles!” Cook exclaimed, while Rose simultaneously put in a feeble “Well I never!”
But this wonder-struck attitude was beginning to pall on Tom, and he answered impatiently: “Of course I’ve been walking all night. How do you think I got here if I didn’t walk . . . ? Sorry!” he added next moment, a little ashamed of his irritability; and when Rose lifted the tray to carry it upstairs, he followed her—though he lingered outside on the landing until he heard her announcing in awe-stricken tones, “Master Tom’s here.”
Granny was sitting up in bed, and he ran forward to kiss her before she had time to speak. She didn’t behave like Rose and Cook, and he had known she wouldn’t. Certainly she looked astonished, but she didn’t gasp or stare or throw up her hands, nor did she seem to mind his being dirty. “I’ve run away, Granny,” he whispered impetuously into her ear. “I had to, because Daddy wants me to say I’m sorry to Mr. Sabine and I won’t. Max killed my squirrel, and I took his gun and threw it in the river, and——”
But Granny was saying “Ssh—ssh”, and he stopped, while she spoke to Rose, who having deposited the tray on a table beside the bed, still lingered near the door. “See first of all that he gets a bath, Rose. You might prepare it now: I suppose the water’s hot. . . .
“And after that you’re to go straight to bed,” she went on, turning to Tom. “You can tell me everything later; but not another word now. By the time you’re undressed, Rose will have the bath ready, and the moment you come out of it you’re to go to bed and to sleep till I call you. Rose will make up the bed while you’re having your bath, and she can take away your things and clean them. . . . Be a good boy, now, and do as I tell you. We’ll have plenty of time to talk afterwards, so meanwhile just show me how good you can be.”
She smiled, gave him a pat on the hand and a friendly little push, and in return, determined to obey literally, Tom departed without one further syllable, going to the room he always slept in, while Rose went to the bath-room, where he heard her turning on the taps.
He undressed slowly, giving the bath plenty of time to fill. But it was very pleasant to get his soiled clothes off, and still pleasanter when, having made his way to the bath-room, he was lying soaking in the warm water. He allowed his limbs to relax deliciously. Stretched at full length, he lay quite still, with his eyes closed. All the same, it wouldn’t do to fall asleep, which he began to feel might easily happen if he wasn’t careful. . . .
Presently there was a knock on the door—Rose again—this time to tell him she had made his bed and was taking his clothes down to the kitchen to see what could be done with them. Rose must have recovered, for her voice sounded admonitory and slightly aggrieved. Later she would leave the clothes on a chair outside his door, she said, where he would find them when he got up. Tom thanked her drowsily, and getting out of the bath began to dry himself. This finished, he opened the door about two inches, just to make sure the coast was clear before scuttling across the landing to his bedroom.
There, the first thing he did was to look to see if Rose had stuck a hot jar in his bed, and of course she had. He removed it. As if anybody wanted hot jars—particularly in the middle of summer! But it was always the same at Granny’s: she herself actually liked two! Raising the bedclothes, with a little sigh of satisfaction he slid naked between the sheets, and before he had quite decided what he was going to think about was wrapped in a slumber too deep for dreams.
It was Granny who awakened him. She did not come in, but merely tapped on the door, and when he answered told him lunch would be ready in a few minutes. Tom yawned and stretched himself luxuriously. He felt warm and extremely comfortable. All the tiredness and stiffness had passed out of his bones, and the boy who presently ran downstairs to Granny was very different from the weary and travel-stained one who had visited her a few hours earlier.
“Well, you look ‘slept’ at any rate,” was the old lady’s rather dry comment when he entered the room, feeling not only “slept” but quite recovered. She inspected him with an air of strict neutrality, as of one temporarily reserving judgement. “And now,” she went on, when they were seated at the table, “you’d better give me your version of this escapade.”
He did so, omitting nothing, nor had he only one listener, for during the progress of his story Rose found so many pretexts for lingering in the room that in the end Granny had to tell her, “That will do, Rose; I think we have everything we want.”
So Rose had to clear out, though with such obvious reluctance that Tom thought it rather unkind of Granny. He understood her reason, all the same, when having waited till the door was closed, she said: “I’ve been talking to your mother on the telephone. I rang her up as soon as I could to tell her you were here, and fortunately I got her in time. . . . I mean, they hadn’t yet missed you, as only the servants were down. Otherwise, I imagine, she would have been even more astonished and more upset than she was—which is saying a good deal. . . . Suppose, for some reason she had gone to your room in the middle of the night and found you weren’t there! How could she possibly have known where you were or what had happened to you?”
“I’m sorry,” Tom murmured repentantly. “I know I ought to have left a note or something, and I would have if I’d remembered.”
Granny herself knew he would; therefore all she answered was: “She told me she would be over in the afternoon, probably by teatime.”
It was enough for Tom, however, who had not contemplated such rapid action. It altered indeed the entire prospect, and he turned two startled eyes on Granny’s mild though at present distinctly non-committal countenance. “Then—Daddy will be coming too,” he faltered.
“I don’t think so,” Granny replied.
“But he will,” Tom persisted. “How can she come without him? She can’t drive the car, and there’s nobody else.”
Granny guessed what he was thinking, and for a minute or two deliberately allowed him to go on thinking it before she said quietly: “I told her I should like to keep you for a few days, and in the end she agreed that this might perhaps be best—if she could persuade your father to consent to it. She said she would ask him, at any r
ate, though she very much feared he would insist on your coming home at once.”
Tom listened with a clouded and brooding expression on his face. Past experience enabled him to picture the scene only too clearly—Mother’s proposal, Daddy’s reception of it, Mother’s reply, and the ensuing arguments and discussion—much more suggestive of a conflict of wills than of “persuasion”.
Granny noticed the worried look in his eyes, but mistook its origin. “She rang me up again—about two hours later—to tell me Doctor Macrory was going to drive her over, and that she would bring whatever things you required.”
“That means Daddy’s furious,” Tom said darkly.
Some such suspicion had in fact crossed Granny’s own mind—particularly since, in the later communication, her son-in-law’s name had not been mentioned. So she replied: “Well, if he is, it ought to show you what comes of being self-willed and disobedient. Other people, who are perfectly innocent, have to suffer for it.”
“But Granny; I told you exactly everything that happened, and you didn’t seem so very angry!”
“That’s not the same at all. In your father’s position I dare say I should have been. And now he’ll very likely feel offended too. . . . Which, in all the circumstances, I must say doesn’t strike me as surprising.”
Tom sat in silence, frowning. The silence was prolonged, for Granny, perhaps again on purpose, forbore to break it. At last he said: “Maybe I’d better go home.”
To his surprise, this sudden and belated compliance had far from the anticipated effect. Granny, in fact, asked him quite sharply: “Do you mean by that you are now willing to apologize to Mr. Sabine?”
“No,” Tom muttered.
“Then perhaps for once you’ll allow other people to decide what is the best thing to do—and nothing can be decided until your mother comes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LUNCH over, Tom went out to talk to Quigley, who, whatever his shortcomings as a gardener, possessed one great advantage over William, in that he was a most sociable person. So they pottered about together, Tom following like a dog close on Quigley’s heels, while they kept up a familiar if broken stream of conversation. Among other things, they discussed William himself; Quigley in a mock-serious vein, and illustrating his appreciation of that irreproachable person with several anecdotes, which if not strictly veracious, were at least new to Tom and amusing. Thus the time passed till they heard the sound of the approaching car.
Tom had left the gate open for it, and a few seconds later it swept up the drive, bringing not only Doctor Macrory and Mother, but also a most unexpected Pascoe, whom he had supposed to be still far away in Donegal. The usual bustle of alighting ensued—accompanied by greetings of various kinds—an embrace from Mother, a friendly “Hello!” from Pascoe, and a slap on the back from Doctor Macrory—in the midst of which Granny appeared at the top of the steps to welcome her visitors.
Mother looked worried, and as if she very much wished the others weren’t there. But, backed up by Tom’s verbal asseverations, an anxious inspection persuaded her that outwardly at least he was none the worse for his adventure, and just at present there was no opportunity for more. Pascoe had dragged out a suitcase, which Tom took from him, and they all moved together towards the house, with the exception of Doctor Macrory, who refused to come in, but promised to return later in time for tea and to take Mother home. With this assurance the doctor got back into his car, and they waited to see him start—Mother and Granny on the doorstep, the two boys close beside him on the drive; so that after leaning out to wave au revoir to the ladies he was able to catch Tom’s eye, and by a wink convey a private message that all was well.
At least this was how Tom interpreted it, and he was about to follow Mother and Granny into the house when the latter suggested that he should leave down the suitcase for Rose to look after, adding that she and Mother wished to have a little chat together, and that in the meantime he might like to entertain his friend by showing him the garden and the grounds. . . .
Nothing loath, for Doctor Macrory’s signal had had a most cheering effect, Tom deposited his burden. “Come on,” he said gaily to Pascoe; and as soon as he got him alone: “When did you get back, and how did they manage to pick you up?”
“I got back yesterday,” Pascoe replied sedately, “and I rode over to your house after lunch to-day. They were just starting when I arrived, so your mother told me where you were and asked me if I’d like to come with them.”
“I suppose that means you’ll have to go back with them,” Tom reflected. “It’s a pity you didn’t ride over on your bike: then you could have stayed all evening. . . . I must say,” he went on, “you didn’t write many letters—considering all the fuss you made about getting me to write!”
Pascoe admitted the truth of this. “I meant to—honestly: but somehow or other I was always prevented—or else I was too sleepy—or—— Anyhow, we needn’t bother about that now: tell me what’s happened.”
The expression on Tom’s face, which prior to these words had betokened a remarkable revival in his spirits, immediately altered. All the troubles and difficulties, from which the arrival of the car and its occupants had temporarily distracted his thoughts, now came back with a rush, and he wondered how much Pascoe knew—if indeed he really knew anything and were not merely trying a shot in the dark? “Why?” he asked warily. “What makes you think something’s happened?”
Pascoe shrugged his shoulders. “Because I know it has.”
Tom looked at him, but gained no information from the calm gaze which met his own. “Did Mother say anything?” he questioned doubtfully.
“Not to me: I don’t suppose she would before Doctor Macrory. All the same, I knew at once that something must be up.”
“I don’t see why,” Tom muttered, far from pleased. Of course sooner or later he would have confided in Pascoe, but just at present he was sick of repeating the same story again and again, and this persistence made it inevitable. To get done with it as quickly as possible, he produced a bald and much abbreviated account, to which Pascoe listened without comment. Tom didn’t care. In fact he was rather glad Pascoe said nothing—even if it meant that like everybody else he disapproved. For by now he felt so weary of the whole thing that all he wanted was to forget it. Perhaps it was this that brought back to memory an old plan, which recent events had thrust into the background of his mind. Certainly he could have no better opportunity than the present for putting it into practice, and it would at least save him from having to talk about Mr. Sabine and Max. Not that he himself felt in the right mood. Very definitely he didn’t, but that couldn’t be helped; and besides, it was what Pascoe would feel—if he felt anything at all—that mattered. At all events he might as well try the experiment and see what happened. . . .
“Let’s go in,” he proposed, turning back towards the house.
Pascoe made no movement to follow him. “I don’t think they want us,” he said dubiously. “Your grandmother practically told us she didn’t.
“Oh, Granny won’t mind: why should she?” And since Pascoe, in spite of this assurance, still hung back: “I don’t mean to them of course, if that’s what you’re thinking. I mean upstairs—to a part of the house Granny doesn’t even use. It’s been shut up ever since she came here.”
But Pascoe, possibly failing to see how this constituted an attraction, continued to hesitate. It was obvious that he would very much prefer to explore the grounds outside, and that only his status as a visitor prevented him from saying so. “Oh, all right,” he finally gave in, but with such a marked absence of enthusiasm that at any other time Tom would have abandoned the project. Now, however, Pascoe’s unwillingness was ignored; he was led indoors; Tom got the key; and they ascended the stairs together to the disused wing.
Yet nothing was going right. Conscious of Pascoe’s latent antagonism, Tom already felt discouraged, and it was with but the faintest echo of his former thrill of expectancy that he unlocked the doo
r at the end of the passage. Pascoe, still hankering after the sunlight and the unexplored grounds outside, clearly felt no thrill whatever; nor, as he rather sulkily followed his conductor, did he try to conceal his dissatisfaction at being dragged upstairs—apparently to gaze at three or four abandoned rooms, with nothing in them except some more or less dilapidated furniture and a few mouldy old books. Pascoe very obviously was bored, and notwithstanding all efforts to the contrary, his unresponsiveness and complete lack of interest were producing a more and more damping effect upon Tom himself. There, in the window, was the table, with the pile of Graphics still open upon it; outwardly, in spite of all the dusting and scrubbing, little was changed since he had been here last; yet in an inner and spiritual sense everything was changed. The beauty and the wonder and the sense of haunting were gone; he even began to see it all as Pascoe saw it—an abandoned room, some more or less dilapidated furniture, and a few mouldy old books. He turned, and a question hovered on his lips, but died unspoken as Pascoe asked bluntly; “Is this all?”
The accentuation of the final word completed what had been nearly accomplished without it. “Yes,” Tom answered. “We’ll go down.”
His abrupt and unexpected acquiescence—perhaps because it was unexpected—seemed to produce more effect than his earlier eagerness, for it was with a quite genuine curiosity that Pascoe now glanced at him “Why were you so anxious to bring me up, then?” he said. “You were, you know, though now you seem to have changed your mind.”
Tom turned away. “I thought you might like it,” he replied.
“Like what? What is there to like? I don’t believe you thought any such thing. You had a particular reason, and now, as usual, you’re making a mystery about it.”
