Chapter Six.It was a capital dinner, but Sam felt that he could not eat a bit for mental troubles, while his cousin felt the same from bodily reasons connected with a terrible stiffness at one angle of his lower jaw.Consequently Sam made a very poor dinner, to his mother’s grief; but Tom ate heartily and enjoyed everything, forgetting his cares for the time being, as he listened in astonishment to the way in which his cold, grave uncle could brighten up, and keep the whole table interested by his conversation relating to discoveries in the world of science, especially in connection with light, and researches in what he spoke of as “The Vast Abyss.”Then came tea in the drawing-room, and on the part of the two boys an early movement in the direction of bed.Tom was on his guard as soon as they were alone, fully expecting that his cousin would in some way renew hostilities, the more especially as neither Mr nor Mrs Brandon had had an opportunity of speaking to them with warning or appeal.But Sam did not even look at him, undressing himself in sulky silence, throwing his clothes here and there, and plunging into bed and turning his face to the wall as he began to make his plans respecting a campaign he intended to carry out for the destruction of his cousin’s peace, without running risks of getting himself injured as he had been that night.“For,” said Sam to himself, “everything seems to be against me. I only forgot that letter, and instead of helping a fellow out of a hole that beastly young sneak betrayed me. Then when I meant to pay him out, all the luck was on his side; and lastly, old moony Uncle Dick must turn upon me about that money affair. But wait a bit, I’ll pay him back, and then he may tell the guv’nor if he likes. What did he say when I went and told him what a hole I was in over that account, and was afraid the guv’nor would know;—that it was embezzlement, and a criminal offence, and that if I had done such a thing for a regular employer, I might have found myself in the felon’s dock? Rubbish! I only borrowed the money for a few weeks, and meant to pay it back. He shall have it again; and let him tell the old man if he dares. A coward, to throw that in my teeth! Wonder if they’ll ask him what he meant. But all right, Master Tom Blount, you shall pay for this.”Meantime the object of his threatenings had undressed in silence too, extinguished the light, remembered by his bedside the old mother-taught lesson, and added a prayer for pardon in regard for that which he had made up his mind to do. Then, as his head pressed the pillow, he lay thinking of all that had taken place since he had been at his uncle’s, and came finally to the conclusion that he could bear no more.“I can’t help being a fool,” he said to himself, dolefully. “I have tried, but all these law things slip out of my head as fast as I read them. Of course it makes uncle bitter and angry, when he has tried to help me, and would go on trying if it was not for Sam.”Then the long, weary time of his stay came up, and in succession the series of injuries and petty annoyances to which he had been subjected by his cousin passed before him, strengthening his determination.But in spite of all these, he would have fought down the desire so strong upon him if it had not been for the past evening’s scene. Even as he lay in bed his face flushed, and he quivered with shame and indignation. For here it all was vividly before his mind’s eye. What had he done to deserve it? Nothing. He had spoken the truth, and declined to take his cousin’s lapse upon his own shoulders about that letter; and then on getting home Sam had turned upon him, and any boy, Tom argued, would have done as he did, and struck back. He’d have been a mean-spirited coward if he had not.“No, I can’t stand it,” he muttered, with his head beneath the clothes. “He was going to beat me in spite of all I said, and it was too horrible. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I had been in the wrong, but even then it was too cruel before aunt—before the servants, and with Sam lying there shamming to be so bad, and watching all the time in his delight. No, I won’t alter my mind in the morning. Poor father used to say, ‘Sleep on it, my lad;’ but I can’t sleep on this. I must go now before things get worse.”He threw the clothes from his face and lay listening, to try and make out whether his cousin was awake. He was not, for a heavy stuffy breathing could be heard, consequent upon Sam’s mouth being open, a peculiar puffy swelling about the nose preventing him from breathing in the usual way.This brought a gleam of mental sunshine into Tom’s sad and blackened horizon. Naturally a bright, merry lad, for months past he had not had a hearty laugh; but now, as he recalled his cousin’s appearance, the smile broadened, and for a few moments he shook with suppressed laughter.But the mirth passed away directly, for the matter was too serious, and he now lay with knitted brows, listening to his cousin’s breathing, and continuing his plans.He would wait another hour, and then begin.He waited for some time listening till the last sound had died out in the house, thinking that he must move about very silently, for his uncle’s room was beneath, and the servants were only separated from them by a not too thick wall.“Poor cook! poor Mary!” he thought. “I should like to kiss them and say good-bye. How brave cook was; and she is sure to lose her place for taking my part. Aunt and uncle will never forgive her. How I wish I had a home of my own and her for housekeeper. But perhaps I shall never have one now, for what am I going to do when I go?”That was the great puzzle as he lay there gazing at the window-blind, faintly illumined by the gas-lamps in the Crescent. What was he to do? Soldier?—No; he was too young, and wanting in manly aspect. Sailor?—No. He would like to go to sea, and have adventures; but no, if his father and mother had lived it would have given them pain to know that he had run away to enlist, or get on board some coasting vessel.No; he could not do that. It might be brave and daring, but at the same time he had a kind of feeling that it would be degrading, and he would somehow do better than either of those things, and try and show his uncles, both of them, and Sam too, that if he was a fool, he was a fool with some good qualities.But it was quite an hour since it had struck twelve, and it was time to act. The first thing was to test Sam’s sleep—whether he was sound enough to enable him to make his preparations unheard.What would be the best thing to do? came again. How could he get work without a character? What answer could he give people who asked him who he was, and whence he came?No answer came, think hard as he would. All was one black, impenetrable cloud before him, into which he had made up his mind to plunge, and what his future was to be he could not tell. But let it be what it would, he mentally vowed that it should be something honest, and he would not let the blackness of that cloud stay him. No; his mind was fully made up now. This was his last night at his uncle’s house, and he would take his chance as to where he would next lay his head.“I shall be free,” he muttered half aloud; “now I am like a slave.”It was time to act. Not that he meant to leave the house that night. No; his mind was made up. He would pack a few things in the little black bag in which he took his law-books to and fro, place it ready in the hall as usual, and go in to his breakfast; and when he started for the office, just call in and say good-bye to Pringle, who would not hinder him. On the contrary, he would be sure to give him advice, and perhaps help him as to his future.“Poor old Pringle won’t say stay,” he muttered; and reaching out of bed, he felt in his trousers pocket on the chair for a halfpenny. He could not spare it, but it was the only missile he could think of then, and he held it poised ready to throw as he listened to his cousin’s heavy breathing.He threw the coin forcibly, so that it struck the wall just above Sam’s head, and fell upon his face.There was no movement, and the heavy, guttural breathing went on.Tom waited a few minutes, and then slipped out of bed, crossed to his cousin’s side, and gave the iron bedstead a slight shake, then a hard one. Next he touched his shoulder, and finished by laying a cold hand upon his hot brow.But the result was always the same—the heavy, hoarse breathing.Satisfied that he might do anything without arousing his cousin, he returned to his own bed, slipped on his trousers, and sat down to think.There was the bag of books on the top of his little chest of drawers, and he had only to take them out, lay them down, and after carefully pulling out the drawer, pack the bag full of linen, and add an extra suit. It would be a tight cram, but he would want the things, and they would prove very useful.But there was a hitch here. All these things were new, his old were worn-out, and his uncle had paid for all these in spite of his aunt’s suggestion, that there were a good many of Sam’s old things that might be altered to fit.He stumbled over this. They were not his; and at last, in a spirit of proud independence, he ignored his own services to his uncle, and stubbornly determined that he would take nothing but the clothes in which he stood.“And some day I’ll send the money to pay for them,” he said proudly, half aloud.“Gug—gug—gug—ghur-r-r-r,” came from his cousin’s bed as if in derision.But Tom’s mind was made up, and undressing once more he lay down to think, but did not, for, quite satisfied now as to his plans, no sooner had his head touched the pillow than, utterly wearied out, he dropped asleep.It seemed to him that he had only just closed his eyes, when, in a dreamy way, he heard the customary tapping at his door, followed by a growl from Sam, bidding Mary not make “that row.”Then Tom was wide-awake, thinking of his over-night plans.And repentant?Not in the least. He lay there thinking fiercely, only troubled by the idea of what he would do as soon as he had made his plunge penniless into that dense black cloud—the future.But there was no lifting of the black curtain. He could see his way to the office to bid Pringle good-bye. After that all was hidden.At the end of a quarter of an hour he jumped up and began to dress, while Sam lay with his back to him fast asleep, or pretending.It did not matter, for he did not want to speak to him; and after dressing, and duly noting that there was only a scratch or two, no swelling about his face, he went down with his bag of books to the breakfast-room, to read as usual for an hour before his uncle and aunt came down.In the hall he encountered the cook, who had to “do” that part of the housework, and she rose from her knees to wish him so hearty a good-morning, that a lump rose in Tom’s throat, there was a dimness in his eyes, and his hand went out involuntarily for a silent good-bye.To his surprise a pair of plump arms were flung round him, and he received two hearty kisses, and then there was a warm whisper in his ear—“Don’t you mind a bit, my dear. You didn’t deserve it; and as for Mr Sam, he’s a beast.”“Thank you, cook,” said Tom huskily, “thank you. Good-bye.”“What! Oh no, it ain’t good-bye neither, my dear. They’d like me to go, and so I won’t. I’ll stop just to spite them, so there!”Cook went off to seize a door-mat, carry it out on the front steps, and then and there she banged it down, and began to thump it with the head of the long broom, as if in imagination she had Sam beneath her feet.“She didn’t understand me,” said Tom to himself, as he hurried into the breakfast-room, feeling that after all it would be very painful to go, but not shaken in his determination.“Morning, Mr Tom,” said Mary, who looked bright and cheerful in her clean print dress, as she made pleasant morning music by rattling the silver spoons into the china saucers. “Ain’t it a nice morning? The sun’s quite hot.”“Yes, a beautiful morning,” said Tom sadly, as he gave the girl a wistful look, before going into a corner, sitting down and openingTidd’s Practicefor what his cousin called a grind.Then with a sigh he went on reading, giving quite a start when Mary had finished her preparations for breakfast, and came to whisper—“Cook ain’t going, sir; she says she wouldn’t go and leave you here alone for nothing, and I won’t neither.”Tom felt as if he could not speak, and he had no need to, for the maid slipped out of the room, and the next minute Uncle Richard entered to nod to him gravely.“Morning, my lad,” he said rather sternly. “That’s right—never waste time.”How cold and repellent he seemed: so different to his manner upon the previous night, when the boy had felt drawn towards him. The effect was to make Tom feel more disposed than ever to carry out his plan, and he was longing for the breakfast to be over, so that he could make his start for the office.But it wanted half-an-hour yet, and the boy had just plunged more deeply into his book, when Uncle Richard said—“And so you don’t like the law, Tom?”The boy started, for there was a different ring in the voice now. It sounded as if it were inviting his confidence, and he was about to speak, when his elder went on—“To be sure, yes; you told me so last time I saw you.”“I have tried, sir, very hard,” said Tom apologetically; “but it seems as if my brains are not of the right shape to understand it.”“Humph, perhaps not,” said his uncle, gazing at him searchingly; and Tom coloured visibly, for it seemed to him that those penetrating eyes must be reading the secret he was keeping. “And you don’t like your cousin Sam either?”Tom was silent for a few moments.“Why don’t you answer my question, sir?”“I was thinking, uncle, that it is Cousin Sam who does not like me.”“How can he when you knock him down, and then dash china vases at him, sir?”“I suppose I did knock him down, uncle, but not until he had kicked and struck me. Throw vases at him!” cried the boy indignantly; “I wouldn’t be such a coward.”“Humph!” grunted his uncle, taking up the morning paper that Mary had just brought in; and without another word he sat back in his chair and began to read, while Tom, with his face still burning, turned once more to his book, with a strange elation beginning to take the place of the indignation he felt against his uncle, for it had suddenly occurred to him that this was the last time he would have to make his head ache over the hard, brain-wearying work. Then the elation died out again, for what was to be his future fate?He was musing over this, and wondering whether after all he dare trust Pringle, when the door suddenly opened, Uncle Richard rustled and lowered the paper, and Mrs Brandon entered the room, looking wonderfully bright and cheerful.“Good-morning, Richard,” she cried; “I am so sorry I am late. James will be down directly. Good-morning, Tom.”Tom jumped in his chair at this pleasantly cordial greeting, and stared dumbfounded at his aunt.“Not a bit late,” said Uncle Richard, after a glance at his watch. “You are very punctual. Hah, here is James.”For at that moment Mr Brandon, looking clean-shaven and pleasant, entered the room.“Morning, Dick,” he cried; “what a lovely air. Ah, Tom, my boy, got over the skirmish?”Tom babbled out something, and felt giddy. What did it mean? Could they have divined that he was about to run away, and were going to alter their treatment; or had Uncle Richard, who seemed again so grave and cold, been taking his part after he had gone to bed?But he had very little time for dwelling upon that; the question which troubled him was, How could he go away now?The thoughts sent him into a cold perspiration, and he glanced anxiously at the clock, to see that it was a quarter past eight, and that in fifteen minutes, according to custom, he must start for the office—for the office, and then—where?Just then Mary entered with the breakfast-tray, and, chatting pleasantly, all took their seats. Mary whisked off two covers, to display fried ham and eggs on one, hot grilled kidneys on the other.Tom grew hotter and colder, and asked himself whether he was going out of his mind, for there was no thin tea and bread-and-butter that morning.“Tea or coffee, Tom?” said his aunt; and Tom’s voice sounded hoarse as he chose the latter.He was just recovering from this shock when his uncle said—“Ham and eggs or kidneys, Tom? There, try both—they go well together.”“Thank you, uncle,” faltered the boy; and he involuntarily looked up at Uncle Richard, who sat opposite to him, and saw that, though his face was perfectly stern and calm, his eyes were fixed upon him with a peculiar twinkling glitter.“Bread, my boy?” he said quietly, and he took up a knife and the loaf.“Try a French roll, Tom,” said his aunt, handing the dish.“How can I run away?” thought Tom, as he bent over his breakfast to try and hide his agitation, for his breast was torn by conflicting emotions, and it was all he could do to continue his meal. “It’s of no use,” he said to himself, as the conversation went on at the table; and though he heard but little, he knew that it was about the guest departing that morning for his home in Surrey.“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, “I must get back, for I’m very busy.”“And not stay another night?” said Aunt Fanny sweetly.“No, not this visit, thanks. I’ll get back in good time, and astonish Mrs Fidler. Hallo, squire, you’re late; Tom has half finished the kidneys.”“Morning, uncle,” said Sam sourly; “I didn’t know it was so late. I’ve got a bad headache this morning, ma.”“Have you, dear?—I am so sorry. But never mind, I’ve a nice strong cup of tea here, and I’ll ring for some dry toast.”“No, don’t, ma,” said Sam, scowling at Tom, and looking wonderingly at his cousin’s plate. “I’ll have coffee and a hot roll.”“But they will be bad for your head, love.”Sam made no reply, but felt his plate, which was nearly cold, and then held it out to his father for some kidneys.“Oh, Sam, my darling, don’t have kidneys, dear. I’m sure they’ll be bad for you.”“No, they won’t, ma,” he said pettishly; and his father helped him liberally.Uncle Richard went on with his breakfast, making believe to see nothing, but Tom noticed that his keen eyes glittered, and that nothing escaped him. Those eyes were wonderful, and fascinated the boy.Suddenly, just as he had made a very poor breakfast, the clock on the chimney-piece gave a loudting. It was the half-hour, and Tom rose quickly after a hasty glance at his uncle and aunt. He had had breakfast for the last time, and feeling that this change of treatment was only due to his Uncle Richard’s presence, he was more determined than ever to go.“Good-bye, Uncle Richard,” he said firmly, but there was a husky sound in his voice.“No, no, sit down, Tom,” was the reply. “We won’t say good-bye yet.”Sam stopped eating, with a bit of kidney half-way to his mouth, and stared.“Yes, sit down, Tom,” said Mr Brandon, giving a premonitory cough, after a glance at his wife. “The fact is, my lad, your uncle and I had a little conversation about you after you were gone to bed last night.”Tom, who had subsided into his chair, took hold of the table-cloth, and began to twist it up in his agitation, as a peculiar singing noise came in his ears; and as he listened he kept on saying to himself—“Too late—too late; I must keep to it now.”“Yes, a very long talk,” said Uncle Richard.“Very,” acquiesced his brother; “and as we—as he—”“Aswe, James,” said Uncle Richard.“Exactly—could not help seeing that you do not seem cut out for the law—er—hum—do not take to it—he has been kind enough to say that he will give you a trial with him down in the country.”Tom’s head, which had been hanging down, was suddenly raised, and the words were on his lips to say No, he could not go, when he met the keen, bright, piercing eyes fixed upon his, and those words died away.“He has not definitely decided as to what he will put you to, but means to test you, as it were, for a few months.”The singing in Tom’s ears grew louder.Go with that cold stern man, who had never seemed to take to him? It would be like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. Impossible! He could not—he would not go.“There,” said Mr Brandon in conclusion, after a good deal more, of which Tom heard not a word; “it is all settled, and you will go down with your uncle this morning, so you had better pack up your box as soon as we leave the table. Now what have you to say to your uncle for his kindness?”“No: I will not go,” thought Tom firmly; and once more he raised his eyes defiantly to that searching pair, which seemed to be reading his; but he did not say those words, for others quite different came halting from his lips—“Thank you, Uncle Richard—and—and I will try so hard.”“Of course you will, my boy,” said the gentleman addressed, sharply. “But mind this, the country’s very dull, my place is very lonely, all among the pine-trees, and you will not have your cousin Sam to play with.”“Haw haw!”This was a hoarse laugh uttered by the gentleman in question.“I beg your pardon, Sam?” said Uncle Richard, raising his eyebrows.“I didn’t speak, uncle,” said Sam, “but I will, and I say a jolly good job too, and good riddance of bad rubbish.”“Sam, dear, you shouldn’t,” said his mother, in a gentle tone of reproof.“Yes, I should; it’s quite true.”“Hold your tongue, sir.”“All right, father; but we shall have some peace now.”“And I am to have all the disturbance, eh?” said Uncle Richard; “and the china vases thrown at me and smashed, eh?”Tom darted a quick look at his uncle, and saw that he was ready to give him a nod and smile, which sent a thrill through him.“You’ll have to lick him half-a-dozen times a week,” continued Sam.“Indeed,” said Uncle Richard good-humouredly; “anything else?”“Yes, lots of things,” cried Sam excitedly; “I could tell you—”“Don’t, please, my dear nephew,” said Uncle Richard, interrupting him; “I could not bear so much responsibility all at once. You might make me repent of my determination.”“And you jolly soon will,” cried Sam maliciously; “for of all the—”“Hush, Sam, my darling!” cried his mother.“You hold your tongue now, sir,” said Mr Brandon; “and I should feel obliged by your making haste down to the office. You can tell Pringle that your cousin is not coming any more.”Tom started, and looked sharply from one to the other.“Mayn’t I go and say good-bye to Pringle, uncle?” he cried.“No, sir,” said his Uncle James coldly; “you will only have time to get your box packed. Your uncle is going to catch the ten fifty-five from Charing Cross.”“Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “and you can write to your friend.”“Or better not,” said Mr Brandon. “Tom has been rather too fond of making friends of people beneath him. There, my lad, you had better go and be getting ready; and I sincerely hope that you will make good use of your new opportunity.”Tom hardly knew how he got out of the room, for he felt giddy with excitement. Then he was not going to run away, but to be taken down into Surrey by his Uncle Richard—and for what?Would he behave well to him? He looked cold and stern, but he was not on the previous night. Young as he was, Tom could read that there was another side to his character. Yes, he must go, he thought; and then he came face to face with Mary, who came bustling out of a bedroom.“La! Master Tom, how you startled me. Not gone to the office?”“No, Mary. I’m going away for good with Uncle Richard.”“Oh, I am glad! No, I ain’t—I’m sorry. But when?”“This morning—almost directly.”“My! I’ll go and tell cook.”Tom reached his room, packed up his things as if in a dream, and bore the box down-stairs, his cousin having left the house some time. Then, still as if in a dream, he found himself in the breakfast-room, and heard Mary told to whistle for a cab.Ten minutes later his uncle’s Gladstone was on the roof side by side with the modest old school box; and after saying good-bye to all, they were going down the steps.“Jump in first, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “and let’s have no silly crying about leaving home.”Tom started, and stared at his uncle with his eyes wonderfully dry then, but the next moment they were moist, for two female figures were at the area gate waving their handkerchiefs; and as the boy leaned forward to wave his hand in return, mingled with the trampling of the horse, and the rattle of the wheels, there came his uncle’s voice shouting Charing Cross to the cabman from the kerb, and from the area gate—“Good-bye, Master Tom, good-bye!”“Why, the boy’s wet-eyed!” said Uncle Richard in a peculiarly sneering voice. “What a young scoundrel you must have been, sir, to make those two servants shout after you like that! There, now for a fresh home, boy, and the beginning of a new life, for your dear dead mother’s sake.”“Uncle!” gasped Tom, with the weak tears now really showing in his eyes, for there was a wonderful change in his companion’s voice, as he laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.“Yes, Tom, your uncle, my boy. I never quarrel with my brother James or his wife, but I don’t believe quite all that has been said about you.”All thought of running away to seek his fortune faded out of Tom Blount’s brain, as he sat there with his teeth pressed together, staring straight away between the horse’s ears, trying hard to be firm.But after long months of a very wretched life it was stiff work to keep his feelings well within bounds.
It was a capital dinner, but Sam felt that he could not eat a bit for mental troubles, while his cousin felt the same from bodily reasons connected with a terrible stiffness at one angle of his lower jaw.
Consequently Sam made a very poor dinner, to his mother’s grief; but Tom ate heartily and enjoyed everything, forgetting his cares for the time being, as he listened in astonishment to the way in which his cold, grave uncle could brighten up, and keep the whole table interested by his conversation relating to discoveries in the world of science, especially in connection with light, and researches in what he spoke of as “The Vast Abyss.”
Then came tea in the drawing-room, and on the part of the two boys an early movement in the direction of bed.
Tom was on his guard as soon as they were alone, fully expecting that his cousin would in some way renew hostilities, the more especially as neither Mr nor Mrs Brandon had had an opportunity of speaking to them with warning or appeal.
But Sam did not even look at him, undressing himself in sulky silence, throwing his clothes here and there, and plunging into bed and turning his face to the wall as he began to make his plans respecting a campaign he intended to carry out for the destruction of his cousin’s peace, without running risks of getting himself injured as he had been that night.
“For,” said Sam to himself, “everything seems to be against me. I only forgot that letter, and instead of helping a fellow out of a hole that beastly young sneak betrayed me. Then when I meant to pay him out, all the luck was on his side; and lastly, old moony Uncle Dick must turn upon me about that money affair. But wait a bit, I’ll pay him back, and then he may tell the guv’nor if he likes. What did he say when I went and told him what a hole I was in over that account, and was afraid the guv’nor would know;—that it was embezzlement, and a criminal offence, and that if I had done such a thing for a regular employer, I might have found myself in the felon’s dock? Rubbish! I only borrowed the money for a few weeks, and meant to pay it back. He shall have it again; and let him tell the old man if he dares. A coward, to throw that in my teeth! Wonder if they’ll ask him what he meant. But all right, Master Tom Blount, you shall pay for this.”
Meantime the object of his threatenings had undressed in silence too, extinguished the light, remembered by his bedside the old mother-taught lesson, and added a prayer for pardon in regard for that which he had made up his mind to do. Then, as his head pressed the pillow, he lay thinking of all that had taken place since he had been at his uncle’s, and came finally to the conclusion that he could bear no more.
“I can’t help being a fool,” he said to himself, dolefully. “I have tried, but all these law things slip out of my head as fast as I read them. Of course it makes uncle bitter and angry, when he has tried to help me, and would go on trying if it was not for Sam.”
Then the long, weary time of his stay came up, and in succession the series of injuries and petty annoyances to which he had been subjected by his cousin passed before him, strengthening his determination.
But in spite of all these, he would have fought down the desire so strong upon him if it had not been for the past evening’s scene. Even as he lay in bed his face flushed, and he quivered with shame and indignation. For here it all was vividly before his mind’s eye. What had he done to deserve it? Nothing. He had spoken the truth, and declined to take his cousin’s lapse upon his own shoulders about that letter; and then on getting home Sam had turned upon him, and any boy, Tom argued, would have done as he did, and struck back. He’d have been a mean-spirited coward if he had not.
“No, I can’t stand it,” he muttered, with his head beneath the clothes. “He was going to beat me in spite of all I said, and it was too horrible. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I had been in the wrong, but even then it was too cruel before aunt—before the servants, and with Sam lying there shamming to be so bad, and watching all the time in his delight. No, I won’t alter my mind in the morning. Poor father used to say, ‘Sleep on it, my lad;’ but I can’t sleep on this. I must go now before things get worse.”
He threw the clothes from his face and lay listening, to try and make out whether his cousin was awake. He was not, for a heavy stuffy breathing could be heard, consequent upon Sam’s mouth being open, a peculiar puffy swelling about the nose preventing him from breathing in the usual way.
This brought a gleam of mental sunshine into Tom’s sad and blackened horizon. Naturally a bright, merry lad, for months past he had not had a hearty laugh; but now, as he recalled his cousin’s appearance, the smile broadened, and for a few moments he shook with suppressed laughter.
But the mirth passed away directly, for the matter was too serious, and he now lay with knitted brows, listening to his cousin’s breathing, and continuing his plans.
He would wait another hour, and then begin.
He waited for some time listening till the last sound had died out in the house, thinking that he must move about very silently, for his uncle’s room was beneath, and the servants were only separated from them by a not too thick wall.
“Poor cook! poor Mary!” he thought. “I should like to kiss them and say good-bye. How brave cook was; and she is sure to lose her place for taking my part. Aunt and uncle will never forgive her. How I wish I had a home of my own and her for housekeeper. But perhaps I shall never have one now, for what am I going to do when I go?”
That was the great puzzle as he lay there gazing at the window-blind, faintly illumined by the gas-lamps in the Crescent. What was he to do? Soldier?—No; he was too young, and wanting in manly aspect. Sailor?—No. He would like to go to sea, and have adventures; but no, if his father and mother had lived it would have given them pain to know that he had run away to enlist, or get on board some coasting vessel.
No; he could not do that. It might be brave and daring, but at the same time he had a kind of feeling that it would be degrading, and he would somehow do better than either of those things, and try and show his uncles, both of them, and Sam too, that if he was a fool, he was a fool with some good qualities.
But it was quite an hour since it had struck twelve, and it was time to act. The first thing was to test Sam’s sleep—whether he was sound enough to enable him to make his preparations unheard.
What would be the best thing to do? came again. How could he get work without a character? What answer could he give people who asked him who he was, and whence he came?
No answer came, think hard as he would. All was one black, impenetrable cloud before him, into which he had made up his mind to plunge, and what his future was to be he could not tell. But let it be what it would, he mentally vowed that it should be something honest, and he would not let the blackness of that cloud stay him. No; his mind was fully made up now. This was his last night at his uncle’s house, and he would take his chance as to where he would next lay his head.
“I shall be free,” he muttered half aloud; “now I am like a slave.”
It was time to act. Not that he meant to leave the house that night. No; his mind was made up. He would pack a few things in the little black bag in which he took his law-books to and fro, place it ready in the hall as usual, and go in to his breakfast; and when he started for the office, just call in and say good-bye to Pringle, who would not hinder him. On the contrary, he would be sure to give him advice, and perhaps help him as to his future.
“Poor old Pringle won’t say stay,” he muttered; and reaching out of bed, he felt in his trousers pocket on the chair for a halfpenny. He could not spare it, but it was the only missile he could think of then, and he held it poised ready to throw as he listened to his cousin’s heavy breathing.
He threw the coin forcibly, so that it struck the wall just above Sam’s head, and fell upon his face.
There was no movement, and the heavy, guttural breathing went on.
Tom waited a few minutes, and then slipped out of bed, crossed to his cousin’s side, and gave the iron bedstead a slight shake, then a hard one. Next he touched his shoulder, and finished by laying a cold hand upon his hot brow.
But the result was always the same—the heavy, hoarse breathing.
Satisfied that he might do anything without arousing his cousin, he returned to his own bed, slipped on his trousers, and sat down to think.
There was the bag of books on the top of his little chest of drawers, and he had only to take them out, lay them down, and after carefully pulling out the drawer, pack the bag full of linen, and add an extra suit. It would be a tight cram, but he would want the things, and they would prove very useful.
But there was a hitch here. All these things were new, his old were worn-out, and his uncle had paid for all these in spite of his aunt’s suggestion, that there were a good many of Sam’s old things that might be altered to fit.
He stumbled over this. They were not his; and at last, in a spirit of proud independence, he ignored his own services to his uncle, and stubbornly determined that he would take nothing but the clothes in which he stood.
“And some day I’ll send the money to pay for them,” he said proudly, half aloud.
“Gug—gug—gug—ghur-r-r-r,” came from his cousin’s bed as if in derision.
But Tom’s mind was made up, and undressing once more he lay down to think, but did not, for, quite satisfied now as to his plans, no sooner had his head touched the pillow than, utterly wearied out, he dropped asleep.
It seemed to him that he had only just closed his eyes, when, in a dreamy way, he heard the customary tapping at his door, followed by a growl from Sam, bidding Mary not make “that row.”
Then Tom was wide-awake, thinking of his over-night plans.
And repentant?
Not in the least. He lay there thinking fiercely, only troubled by the idea of what he would do as soon as he had made his plunge penniless into that dense black cloud—the future.
But there was no lifting of the black curtain. He could see his way to the office to bid Pringle good-bye. After that all was hidden.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he jumped up and began to dress, while Sam lay with his back to him fast asleep, or pretending.
It did not matter, for he did not want to speak to him; and after dressing, and duly noting that there was only a scratch or two, no swelling about his face, he went down with his bag of books to the breakfast-room, to read as usual for an hour before his uncle and aunt came down.
In the hall he encountered the cook, who had to “do” that part of the housework, and she rose from her knees to wish him so hearty a good-morning, that a lump rose in Tom’s throat, there was a dimness in his eyes, and his hand went out involuntarily for a silent good-bye.
To his surprise a pair of plump arms were flung round him, and he received two hearty kisses, and then there was a warm whisper in his ear—
“Don’t you mind a bit, my dear. You didn’t deserve it; and as for Mr Sam, he’s a beast.”
“Thank you, cook,” said Tom huskily, “thank you. Good-bye.”
“What! Oh no, it ain’t good-bye neither, my dear. They’d like me to go, and so I won’t. I’ll stop just to spite them, so there!”
Cook went off to seize a door-mat, carry it out on the front steps, and then and there she banged it down, and began to thump it with the head of the long broom, as if in imagination she had Sam beneath her feet.
“She didn’t understand me,” said Tom to himself, as he hurried into the breakfast-room, feeling that after all it would be very painful to go, but not shaken in his determination.
“Morning, Mr Tom,” said Mary, who looked bright and cheerful in her clean print dress, as she made pleasant morning music by rattling the silver spoons into the china saucers. “Ain’t it a nice morning? The sun’s quite hot.”
“Yes, a beautiful morning,” said Tom sadly, as he gave the girl a wistful look, before going into a corner, sitting down and openingTidd’s Practicefor what his cousin called a grind.
Then with a sigh he went on reading, giving quite a start when Mary had finished her preparations for breakfast, and came to whisper—
“Cook ain’t going, sir; she says she wouldn’t go and leave you here alone for nothing, and I won’t neither.”
Tom felt as if he could not speak, and he had no need to, for the maid slipped out of the room, and the next minute Uncle Richard entered to nod to him gravely.
“Morning, my lad,” he said rather sternly. “That’s right—never waste time.”
How cold and repellent he seemed: so different to his manner upon the previous night, when the boy had felt drawn towards him. The effect was to make Tom feel more disposed than ever to carry out his plan, and he was longing for the breakfast to be over, so that he could make his start for the office.
But it wanted half-an-hour yet, and the boy had just plunged more deeply into his book, when Uncle Richard said—
“And so you don’t like the law, Tom?”
The boy started, for there was a different ring in the voice now. It sounded as if it were inviting his confidence, and he was about to speak, when his elder went on—
“To be sure, yes; you told me so last time I saw you.”
“I have tried, sir, very hard,” said Tom apologetically; “but it seems as if my brains are not of the right shape to understand it.”
“Humph, perhaps not,” said his uncle, gazing at him searchingly; and Tom coloured visibly, for it seemed to him that those penetrating eyes must be reading the secret he was keeping. “And you don’t like your cousin Sam either?”
Tom was silent for a few moments.
“Why don’t you answer my question, sir?”
“I was thinking, uncle, that it is Cousin Sam who does not like me.”
“How can he when you knock him down, and then dash china vases at him, sir?”
“I suppose I did knock him down, uncle, but not until he had kicked and struck me. Throw vases at him!” cried the boy indignantly; “I wouldn’t be such a coward.”
“Humph!” grunted his uncle, taking up the morning paper that Mary had just brought in; and without another word he sat back in his chair and began to read, while Tom, with his face still burning, turned once more to his book, with a strange elation beginning to take the place of the indignation he felt against his uncle, for it had suddenly occurred to him that this was the last time he would have to make his head ache over the hard, brain-wearying work. Then the elation died out again, for what was to be his future fate?
He was musing over this, and wondering whether after all he dare trust Pringle, when the door suddenly opened, Uncle Richard rustled and lowered the paper, and Mrs Brandon entered the room, looking wonderfully bright and cheerful.
“Good-morning, Richard,” she cried; “I am so sorry I am late. James will be down directly. Good-morning, Tom.”
Tom jumped in his chair at this pleasantly cordial greeting, and stared dumbfounded at his aunt.
“Not a bit late,” said Uncle Richard, after a glance at his watch. “You are very punctual. Hah, here is James.”
For at that moment Mr Brandon, looking clean-shaven and pleasant, entered the room.
“Morning, Dick,” he cried; “what a lovely air. Ah, Tom, my boy, got over the skirmish?”
Tom babbled out something, and felt giddy. What did it mean? Could they have divined that he was about to run away, and were going to alter their treatment; or had Uncle Richard, who seemed again so grave and cold, been taking his part after he had gone to bed?
But he had very little time for dwelling upon that; the question which troubled him was, How could he go away now?
The thoughts sent him into a cold perspiration, and he glanced anxiously at the clock, to see that it was a quarter past eight, and that in fifteen minutes, according to custom, he must start for the office—for the office, and then—where?
Just then Mary entered with the breakfast-tray, and, chatting pleasantly, all took their seats. Mary whisked off two covers, to display fried ham and eggs on one, hot grilled kidneys on the other.
Tom grew hotter and colder, and asked himself whether he was going out of his mind, for there was no thin tea and bread-and-butter that morning.
“Tea or coffee, Tom?” said his aunt; and Tom’s voice sounded hoarse as he chose the latter.
He was just recovering from this shock when his uncle said—
“Ham and eggs or kidneys, Tom? There, try both—they go well together.”
“Thank you, uncle,” faltered the boy; and he involuntarily looked up at Uncle Richard, who sat opposite to him, and saw that, though his face was perfectly stern and calm, his eyes were fixed upon him with a peculiar twinkling glitter.
“Bread, my boy?” he said quietly, and he took up a knife and the loaf.
“Try a French roll, Tom,” said his aunt, handing the dish.
“How can I run away?” thought Tom, as he bent over his breakfast to try and hide his agitation, for his breast was torn by conflicting emotions, and it was all he could do to continue his meal. “It’s of no use,” he said to himself, as the conversation went on at the table; and though he heard but little, he knew that it was about the guest departing that morning for his home in Surrey.
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, “I must get back, for I’m very busy.”
“And not stay another night?” said Aunt Fanny sweetly.
“No, not this visit, thanks. I’ll get back in good time, and astonish Mrs Fidler. Hallo, squire, you’re late; Tom has half finished the kidneys.”
“Morning, uncle,” said Sam sourly; “I didn’t know it was so late. I’ve got a bad headache this morning, ma.”
“Have you, dear?—I am so sorry. But never mind, I’ve a nice strong cup of tea here, and I’ll ring for some dry toast.”
“No, don’t, ma,” said Sam, scowling at Tom, and looking wonderingly at his cousin’s plate. “I’ll have coffee and a hot roll.”
“But they will be bad for your head, love.”
Sam made no reply, but felt his plate, which was nearly cold, and then held it out to his father for some kidneys.
“Oh, Sam, my darling, don’t have kidneys, dear. I’m sure they’ll be bad for you.”
“No, they won’t, ma,” he said pettishly; and his father helped him liberally.
Uncle Richard went on with his breakfast, making believe to see nothing, but Tom noticed that his keen eyes glittered, and that nothing escaped him. Those eyes were wonderful, and fascinated the boy.
Suddenly, just as he had made a very poor breakfast, the clock on the chimney-piece gave a loudting. It was the half-hour, and Tom rose quickly after a hasty glance at his uncle and aunt. He had had breakfast for the last time, and feeling that this change of treatment was only due to his Uncle Richard’s presence, he was more determined than ever to go.
“Good-bye, Uncle Richard,” he said firmly, but there was a husky sound in his voice.
“No, no, sit down, Tom,” was the reply. “We won’t say good-bye yet.”
Sam stopped eating, with a bit of kidney half-way to his mouth, and stared.
“Yes, sit down, Tom,” said Mr Brandon, giving a premonitory cough, after a glance at his wife. “The fact is, my lad, your uncle and I had a little conversation about you after you were gone to bed last night.”
Tom, who had subsided into his chair, took hold of the table-cloth, and began to twist it up in his agitation, as a peculiar singing noise came in his ears; and as he listened he kept on saying to himself—“Too late—too late; I must keep to it now.”
“Yes, a very long talk,” said Uncle Richard.
“Very,” acquiesced his brother; “and as we—as he—”
“Aswe, James,” said Uncle Richard.
“Exactly—could not help seeing that you do not seem cut out for the law—er—hum—do not take to it—he has been kind enough to say that he will give you a trial with him down in the country.”
Tom’s head, which had been hanging down, was suddenly raised, and the words were on his lips to say No, he could not go, when he met the keen, bright, piercing eyes fixed upon his, and those words died away.
“He has not definitely decided as to what he will put you to, but means to test you, as it were, for a few months.”
The singing in Tom’s ears grew louder.
Go with that cold stern man, who had never seemed to take to him? It would be like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. Impossible! He could not—he would not go.
“There,” said Mr Brandon in conclusion, after a good deal more, of which Tom heard not a word; “it is all settled, and you will go down with your uncle this morning, so you had better pack up your box as soon as we leave the table. Now what have you to say to your uncle for his kindness?”
“No: I will not go,” thought Tom firmly; and once more he raised his eyes defiantly to that searching pair, which seemed to be reading his; but he did not say those words, for others quite different came halting from his lips—“Thank you, Uncle Richard—and—and I will try so hard.”
“Of course you will, my boy,” said the gentleman addressed, sharply. “But mind this, the country’s very dull, my place is very lonely, all among the pine-trees, and you will not have your cousin Sam to play with.”
“Haw haw!”
This was a hoarse laugh uttered by the gentleman in question.
“I beg your pardon, Sam?” said Uncle Richard, raising his eyebrows.
“I didn’t speak, uncle,” said Sam, “but I will, and I say a jolly good job too, and good riddance of bad rubbish.”
“Sam, dear, you shouldn’t,” said his mother, in a gentle tone of reproof.
“Yes, I should; it’s quite true.”
“Hold your tongue, sir.”
“All right, father; but we shall have some peace now.”
“And I am to have all the disturbance, eh?” said Uncle Richard; “and the china vases thrown at me and smashed, eh?”
Tom darted a quick look at his uncle, and saw that he was ready to give him a nod and smile, which sent a thrill through him.
“You’ll have to lick him half-a-dozen times a week,” continued Sam.
“Indeed,” said Uncle Richard good-humouredly; “anything else?”
“Yes, lots of things,” cried Sam excitedly; “I could tell you—”
“Don’t, please, my dear nephew,” said Uncle Richard, interrupting him; “I could not bear so much responsibility all at once. You might make me repent of my determination.”
“And you jolly soon will,” cried Sam maliciously; “for of all the—”
“Hush, Sam, my darling!” cried his mother.
“You hold your tongue now, sir,” said Mr Brandon; “and I should feel obliged by your making haste down to the office. You can tell Pringle that your cousin is not coming any more.”
Tom started, and looked sharply from one to the other.
“Mayn’t I go and say good-bye to Pringle, uncle?” he cried.
“No, sir,” said his Uncle James coldly; “you will only have time to get your box packed. Your uncle is going to catch the ten fifty-five from Charing Cross.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “and you can write to your friend.”
“Or better not,” said Mr Brandon. “Tom has been rather too fond of making friends of people beneath him. There, my lad, you had better go and be getting ready; and I sincerely hope that you will make good use of your new opportunity.”
Tom hardly knew how he got out of the room, for he felt giddy with excitement. Then he was not going to run away, but to be taken down into Surrey by his Uncle Richard—and for what?
Would he behave well to him? He looked cold and stern, but he was not on the previous night. Young as he was, Tom could read that there was another side to his character. Yes, he must go, he thought; and then he came face to face with Mary, who came bustling out of a bedroom.
“La! Master Tom, how you startled me. Not gone to the office?”
“No, Mary. I’m going away for good with Uncle Richard.”
“Oh, I am glad! No, I ain’t—I’m sorry. But when?”
“This morning—almost directly.”
“My! I’ll go and tell cook.”
Tom reached his room, packed up his things as if in a dream, and bore the box down-stairs, his cousin having left the house some time. Then, still as if in a dream, he found himself in the breakfast-room, and heard Mary told to whistle for a cab.
Ten minutes later his uncle’s Gladstone was on the roof side by side with the modest old school box; and after saying good-bye to all, they were going down the steps.
“Jump in first, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “and let’s have no silly crying about leaving home.”
Tom started, and stared at his uncle with his eyes wonderfully dry then, but the next moment they were moist, for two female figures were at the area gate waving their handkerchiefs; and as the boy leaned forward to wave his hand in return, mingled with the trampling of the horse, and the rattle of the wheels, there came his uncle’s voice shouting Charing Cross to the cabman from the kerb, and from the area gate—
“Good-bye, Master Tom, good-bye!”
“Why, the boy’s wet-eyed!” said Uncle Richard in a peculiarly sneering voice. “What a young scoundrel you must have been, sir, to make those two servants shout after you like that! There, now for a fresh home, boy, and the beginning of a new life, for your dear dead mother’s sake.”
“Uncle!” gasped Tom, with the weak tears now really showing in his eyes, for there was a wonderful change in his companion’s voice, as he laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.
“Yes, Tom, your uncle, my boy. I never quarrel with my brother James or his wife, but I don’t believe quite all that has been said about you.”
All thought of running away to seek his fortune faded out of Tom Blount’s brain, as he sat there with his teeth pressed together, staring straight away between the horse’s ears, trying hard to be firm.
But after long months of a very wretched life it was stiff work to keep his feelings well within bounds.
Chapter Seven.“Now, Tom, cloak-room; come along. I’ve got some tackle to take down with us. Only ten minutes before we start. Here, porter, luggage—quick!”A man came forward with a barrow, and after taking the luggage from the cab, followed to the cloak-room, from whence sundry heavy, peculiar-looking packages and a box were handed out and trundled to the train; and in a few minutes, with his heart beating wildly, and a feeling of excitement making him long to jump up and shout aloud, Tom sat there watching the houses and trees seem to glide more and more swiftly past the windows as the speed increased. For to him it was like being suddenly freed from prison; and instead of the black cloud which had been hanging before his eyes—the blank curtain of the future which he had vainly tried to penetrate—he was now gazing mentally ahead along a vista full of bright sunshine and joy.There were two other passengers in the carriage, who, like his uncle, were soon absorbed in their papers, and not a word was spoken until these two got out at the first stopping-place, twenty miles from town; and as soon as the porter had given the door that tremendous unnecessary bang so popular with his fraternity, and the train was speeding on again, Uncle Richard threw down his paper with a loud “Hah!” and turned to his nephew.“Well, Tom,” he said, “I don’t know what I am to do with you now I have got you. You don’t want to go on with the law?”“Oh no, sir, I am too stupid,” said Tom quickly.“Why do you say ‘sir,’ my boy? Will not uncle do for your mother’s brother?”“Uncle James told me always to say ‘sir,’ sir—uncle I mean.”“Ah, but I’m not your Uncle James, and I like the old-fashioned way. Well, as you are too stupid for the law, I suppose I must try you with something easier—say mathematics.”Tom looked at him aghast.“A nice pleasant subject, full of calculations. But we shall see. I suppose you will not mind helping me?”“I shall be glad to, uncle.”“That’s right; but you don’t know yet what I want you to do. You will have to take your coat off sometimes, work hard, put on an apron, and often get dirty.”“Gardening, uncle? Oh, I shall like that.”“Yes; gardening sometimes, but in other ways too. I do a deal of tinkering now and then.” Tom stared.“Yes, I mean it: with tin and solder, and then I try brass and turning. I have a regular workshop, you know, with a small forge and anvil. Can you blow bellows?”Tom stared a little harder as he gazed in the clear grey eyes and the calm unruffled countenance, in which there was not the dawn of a smile.“I never tried,” said Tom, “but I feel sure I could.”“And I feel sure you cannot without learning; some of the easiest-looking things are the hardest, you know. Of course any one can blow forge bellows after a fashion, but it requires some pains to manage the blast aright, and not send the small coal and sparks flying over the place, while the iron is being burned up.”“Iron burned up?” said Tom.“To be sure. If I put a piece in the forge, I could manage the supply of oxygen so as to bring it from a cherry heat right up to a white, while possibly at your first trial you would burn a good deal of the iron away.”“I did not know that,” said Sam.“And I suppose there are a few other little things you do not know, my boy. There’s a deal to learn, Tom, and the worst or best of it is, that the more you find out the more you realise that there is no end to discovery. But so much for the blacksmith’s work.”“But you are not a blacksmith, uncle.”“Oh yes, I am, Tom, and a carpenter too. A bad workman I know, but I manage what I want. Then there is my new business too at the mill.”“Steam mill, uncle?”“Oh no, nor yet water. It’s a regular old-fashioned flour-mill with five sails. How shall you like that business?”Tom looked harder at his uncle.“Well, boy, do I seem a little queer? People down at Furzebrough say I am.”“No, sir,” said Tom, colouring; “but all this does sound a little strange. Do you really mean that you have a windmill?”“Yes, Tom, now. My very own, my boy. It was about that I came up yesterday—to pay the rest of the purchase-money, and get the deeds. Now we can set to work and do what we like.”Tom tried hard, but he could not help looking wonderingly at his uncle, of whom he had previously hardly seen anything. He knew that he had been in India till about a year before, and that his mother had once spoken of him as being eccentric. Now it appeared that he was to learn what this eccentricity meant.“Did you learn any chemistry when you were at school, Tom?” said his uncle, after a pause.“Very little, uncle. There were some lectures and experiments.”“All useful, boy. You know something about physics, of course?”“Physics, uncle?” faltered Tom, as he began to think what an empty-headed fellow he was.“Yes, physics; not physic—salts and senna, rhubarb and magnesia, and that sort of thing; but natural science, heat and light, and the wonders of optics.”Tom shook his head.“Very little, uncle.”“Ah, well, you’ll soon pick them up if you are interested, and not quite such a fool as your uncle made out. Do you know, Tom, that windmill has made me think that I never could have been a lawyer.”Tom was silent. Things seemed to be getting worse.“Four times have I had to come up to town and see my lawyer, who had to see the seller’s lawyer over and over again—the vendor I ought to have said. Now I suppose you wouldn’t have thought that I was a vendee, would you?”“Oh yes, I know that,” said Sam. “You would be if you bought an estate.”“Come, then, you do know something, my lad. But it has been a tiresome business, with its investigation of titles and rights of usance, and court copyhold fines, and—Bother the business, it has taken up no end of time. But there, it’s all over, and you and I can go and make the dust fly and set the millstones spinning as much as we like. Thumpers they are, Tom, three feet in diameter. I wish to goodness they had been discs of glass instead of stone.”“Do you, uncle?” said Tom, for his companion was evidently waiting for an answer.“Yes; we could have tried some fine experiments with them, whereas they will be useless and unsalable I expect.”To Tom’s great relief the conversation reverted to his life at Gray’s Inn and Mornington Crescent, for the impression would keep growing upon him that what people said about his uncle’s queerness might have some basis. But this opinion was soon shaken as they went on, for he was questioned very shrewdly about his cousin and all that had passed between them, till all at once his companion held out his hand.“Shake hands, Tom, my boy. We are just entering Furzebrough parish, and I want to say this:—You came to me with an execrable character—”“Yes, uncle; I’m very sorry.”“Then I’m not, my lad. For look here: I have been questioning you for the last hour, and I have observed one thing—in all your statements about your cousin, who is an abominably ill-behaved young whelp, you have never once spoken ill-naturedly about him, nor tried to run him down. I like this, my lad, and in spite of all that has been said, I believe that you and I will be very good friends indeed.”“Thank you, uncle,” said Tom, huskily. “I mean to try.”“I know that, or I wouldn’t have brought you home. There, there, look! quick! before it runs behind that fir clump, that’s the old madman’s windmill.”Tom turned sharply to the window, and caught sight of a five-sailed windmill some five miles away, on a long wooded ridge.“See it?”“Yes, uncle; I just caught sight of it.”“That’s right; and in five minutes, when we are out of the cutting, you can see Heatherleigh in the opening between the two fir-woods.”“That’s your house, uncle?”“Yes, my lad—that’s my house, where I carry on all my diabolical schemes, and perform my incantations, as old Mother Warboys says. You didn’t know what a wicked uncle you had.”“No, sir,” said Tom, smiling.“Oh, I’m a dreadful wretch; and you did not know either, that within five-and-thirty miles of London as the crow flies, there is as much ignorance and superstition as there was a couple of hundred years or so ago, when they burnt people for being witches and wizards, and the like. There, now look; you can just see Heatherleigh there. No; too late—it’s gone.”Tom felt puzzled. One minute he was drawn strongly towards his uncle, the next he felt uneasy, for there was something peculiar about him. Then he grew more puzzled as to whether the eccentricity was real or assumed. But he soon had something else to think of, for five minutes after a run through a wild bit of Surrey, that looked gloriously attractive with its sandy cuttings, commons, and fir-trees, to a boy who had been shut up closely for months in London, his uncle suddenly cried, “Here we are!” and rose to get his umbrella and overcoat out of the rack.“Let’s see, Tom,” he said; “six packages in the van, haven’t we? Mind that nothing is left behind.”The train was slackening speed, and the next minute they were standing on the platform of a pretty attractive station, quite alone amongst the fir-trees. The station-master’s house was covered with roses and clematis, and he and the porters were evidently famous gardeners in their loneliness, for there was not a house near, the board up giving the name of the station as Furzebrough Road.“Shall I take the luggage, sir?” said a man, touching his hat; and at the same moment Tom caught sight of a solitary fly standing outside the railings.“Yes; six packages. By the way, Mr Day, did a box come down for me?”This to the station-master, who came up as the train glided off and disappeared in a tunnelled sandhill a hundred yards farther.“Yes, sir; very heavy box, marked ‘Glass, with care.’ Take it with you?”“Yes, and let it be with care. Here, I’ll come and pay the rates. Tom, my lad, see that the things are all got to the fly.”Tom nodded; and as his uncle disappeared in the station-master’s office, he went to where the two porters were busy with a barrow and the luggage.They were laughing and chatting with the flyman, and did not notice Tom’s approach, so that he winced as he heard one of the porters say—“Always some fresh contrapshum or another. Regular old lunatic, that’s what he is.”“What’s he going to do with that old mill?” said the other.“Shoot the moon they—Is this all, sir?” said the flyman, who caught sight of Tom.The boy nodded, and felt indignant as well as troubled, for he had learned a little about public opinion concerning his uncle.“Be careful,” he said; “some of those things are glass.”“All right, sir; we’ll be careful enough. Look alive, Jem. Where will you have the box as come down by’s mornin’s goods?”“On the footboard. Won’t break us down, will it?”“Tchah! not it. On’y about a hundredweight.”By the time the luggage was stowed on and about the fly, Uncle Richard came out, and expressed his satisfaction.“Rather a lonely place in winter, Tom,” he said, as he entered the stably-smelling old fly.“Yes, but very beautiful,” replied Tom. “Have we far to go?”“Three miles, my lad, to the village, and a quarter of a mile further to the house.”It was a very slow ride, along sandy lanes, through which, as soon as there was the slightest suggestion of a hill, the horse walked; but everything looked lovely on this bright summer day. High banks where ferns clustered, plantations of fir, where brilliantly-plumaged pheasants looked up to see them pass, and every now and then rabbits scuttled up the steep sandy slopes, showing their white cottony tails before they disappeared amongst the bracken, or dived into a hole. Wild-flowers too dotted the sides of the lane, and as Tom sat gazing out of the window, drinking in the country sweets, his uncle nodded and smiled.“Will it do, my boy?” he said.“Do!” cried Tom, ecstatically; “it’s lovely!”“Humph! yes. Sun shines—don’t rain.”In due time they reached and passed through a pretty flowery village, dotted about by the sides of a green, and with several houses of a better class, all looking as if surrounded by large gardens and orchards. Then, all at once, Tom’s companion exclaimed—“Here’s the mill!” and he had hardly glanced at the tall round brick tower, with its wooden movable cap, sails, and fan, all looking weather-beaten and dilapidated, when his uncle exclaimed—“Here we are!” and down on a slope, nearly hidden in trees, he saw the red-tiled gables of a very attractive old English house, at whose gate the fly stopped.“Drive in, sir?”“Yes, of course. I’ll have the boxes in the stable-yard. Pull up at the door first. But ring, and the gardener will come to help.”The gate was swung back and the fly was led in, now, between two wide grassy borders, with the soft, sandy gravel making hardly a sound beneath the wheels. This drive wound in and out, so that a couple of minutes had elapsed before they came in sight of the front of the house, with its broad porch and verandah.“Welcome to Heatherleigh, Tom—our home,” said his uncle. “Ah, here’s Mrs Fidler.”This was as a very grim, serious-looking, grey-haired woman appeared in the porch.“Back again, Mrs F.,” cried Uncle Richard cheerily. “Here, this is my nephew, who has come to stay. Get my telegram?”“Oh yes, sir, and everything’s ready, sir.”Just then a sun-browned man, with a blue serge apron rolled up and tucked in round his waist, came up, touched his hat, and looked at the luggage.“Morning, David. The box and portmanteau for indoors. The boxes to be very carefully placed in the coach-house. Glass, mind. Here, driver, give your horse some hay and water; David will see to it, while you go round to the kitchen for a crust of bread-and-cheese. Mind and be careful with those packages.”“Oh yes, sir, certainly,” said the man; and he led the horse on amongst the shrubs; while as Tom followed his uncle into the prettily-furnished museum-like hall, he thought to himself—“I wonder whether uncle knows how they laugh at him behind his back.”“Dinner at two, Mrs Fidler, I suppose?” said Uncle Richard just then.“Yes, sir, precisely, ifyouplease,” was the reply.“That’s right. Here, Tom, let’s go and see if they have smashed the glass in the packages.”Uncle Richard led the way out through a glass door, and across a velvety lawn, to a gate in a closely-clipped yew hedge. This opened upon a well-gravelled yard, where the rusty-looking old fly was standing, with its horse comfortably munching at the contents of its nose-bag, and David the gardener looking on with a pail of water at his feet.“Why, David, how was it that the horse was not put in the stable and given a feed?”“He’s having his feed, sir,” said the gardener. “Them’s our oats. The driver said he’d rather not take him out, because the harness do give so, sir, specially the traces; so he had the nose-bag pretty well filled, and the horse have been going at ’em, sir, tremenjus.”“Boxes all right?”“Yes, sir; I don’t think we’ve broke anything; but that big chest did come down pretty heavy.”“What?” cried his master; and he hurried into the coach-house to examine the packing-case. “Humph! I hope they have not broken it,” he muttered; “I won’t stop to open it now. Come, Tom, we’ll just walk round the garden, so that you may see my domain, and then I’ll show you your room.”The domain proved to be a fairly extensive garden in the most perfect order, and Tom stared at the tokens of abundance. Whether he was gazing at fruit or flowers, it was the same: the crop looked rich and tempting in the extreme.“We won’t stop now, my lad. Let’s go and see if Mrs F. has put your room ready.”Uncle Richard led the way, with Tom feasting his eyes upon the many objects which filled him with wonder and delight; and even then it all seemed to be so dreamlike, that he half expected to wake up and find that he had been dozing in the hot office in Gray’s Inn.But it was all real, and he looked with delight at the snug little room, whose window opened upon the garden, from which floated scents and sounds to which he had long been a stranger.“Look sharp and wash your hands, boy, the dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes, I see, and Mrs Fidler is very particular. Will your room do?”“Do, uncle!” cried Tom, in a tone which meant the extreme of satisfaction.“That’s right. You see they’ve brought up your box. Come down as soon as you are ready.”He went out and closed the door; and, with his head in a whirl, Tom felt as if he could do nothing but stand there and think; but his uncle’s words were still ringing in his ears, and hurriedly removing the slight traces of his journey, he took one more look from his window over the soft, fresh, sloping, far-stretching landscape of garden, orchard, fir-wood, and stream far below in the hollow, and then looked round to the right, to see standing towering up within thirty yards, the windmill, with its broken sails and weatherworn wooden cap.He had time for no more. A bell was being rung somewhere below, and he hurried down, eager to conform to his uncle’s wishes.“This way, Tom,” greeted him; and his uncle pointed to the hat-pegs. “You’d better take to those two at the end, and stick to them, for Mrs Fidler’s a bit of a tyrant with me—with us it will be now. Place for everything, she says, and everything in its place—don’t you, old lady?”“Yes, sir,” said the housekeeper, who was just inside the little dining-room door, in a stiff black silk dress, with white bib and apron, and quaint, old-fashioned white cap. “It saves so much trouble, Master Tom, especially in a household like this, where your uncle is always busy with some new contrivance.”“Quite right,” said Uncle Richard. “So take your chair there, Tom, and keep to it. What’s for dinner? We’re hungry.”Mrs Fidler smiled as she took her place at the head of the table, and a neat-looking maid-servant came and removed the covers, displaying a simple but temptingly cooked meal, to which the travellers did ample justice.But Tom was not quite comfortable at first, for Mrs Fidler seemed to be looking very severely at him, as if rather resenting his presence, and sundry thoughts of his being an interloper began to trouble the lad, as he wondered how things would turn out. Every now and then, too, something was said which suggested an oddity about his uncle, which would give rise to all sorts of unpleasant thoughts. Still nothing could have been warmer than his welcome; and every now and then something cropped up which made the boy feel that this was not to be a temporary place of sojourning, but his home for years to come.“There,” exclaimed Uncle Richard, when they rose from the table, “this is a broken day for you, so you had better take your cap and have a good look round at the place and village. Tea at six punctually. Don’t be late, or Mrs Fidler will be angry.”“I don’t like to contradict you, sir,” said the housekeeper, smiling gravely; “but as Master Tom is to form one of the household now, he ought, I think, to know the truth.”“Eh? The truth? Of course. What about?”“Our way of living here, Master Tom,” said the housekeeper, turning to him. “I should never presume to be angry with your uncle, sir; I only carry out his wishes. He is the most precise gentleman I ever met. Everything has to be to the minute; and as to dusting or moving any of the things in his workshop or labour atory, I—”“Oh!” exclaimed Uncle Richard, grinding his teeth and screwing up his face. “My good Mrs Fidler, don’t!”“What have I done, sir?” exclaimed the housekeeper.“Say workshop, and leave laboratory alone.”“Certainly, sir, if you wish it.”“That’s right. Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?”“I thought, if you wouldn’t mind, I should like to help you unpack the boxes.”“Oh, by all means, boy. Come along; but I’m going to have a look over the windmill first—my windmill, Mrs Fidler, now. All settled.”“I’m very glad you’ve got over the bother, sir.”“Oh, dear me, no,” said Uncle Richard, laughing; “it has only just began. Well, what is it?”“I didn’t speak, sir.”“No, but you looked volumes. What have they been saying now?”“Don’t ask me, sir, pray,” said the housekeeper, looking terribly troubled. “I can’t bear to hear such a good man as you are—”“Tut! stuff, woman. Nothing of the kind, Tom. I’m not a good man, only an overbearing, nigger-driving old indigo planter, who likes to have his own way in everything. Now then, old lady, out with it. I like to hear what the fools tattle about me; and besides, I want Tom here to know what sort of a character I have in Furzebrough.”“I—I’d really rather not say, sir. I don’t want to hear these things, but people will talk to David and cook and Jenny, and it all comes to me.”“Well, I want to hear. Out with it.”“I do wish you wouldn’t ask me, sir.”“Can’t help it, Mrs Fidler. Come.”“Bromley the baker told cook, sir, that if you were going to grind your own flour, you might bake your own bread, for not a loaf would he make of it.”“Glad of it. Then we should eat bread made of pure wheat-meal without any potatoes and ground bones in it. Good for us, eh, Tom?”“Better, uncle,” said the boy, smiling.“Well, what next?”“Doctor told David out in the lane that he was sure you had a bee in your bonnet.”“To be sure: so I have; besides hundreds and thousands in the hives. Go on.”“And Jane heard down the village that they’re not going to call it Pinson’s mill any more.”“Why should they? Pinson’s dead and gone these four years. It’s Richard Brandon’s mill now.”“Yes, sir, but they’ve christened it Brandon’s Folly.”“Ha, ha! So it is. But what is folly to some is wisdom to others. What next? Does old Mother Warboys say I am going to hold wizards’ sabbaths up in the top storey, and ride round on the sails o’ windy nights?”“Not exactly that, sir,” said Mrs Fidler, looking sadly troubled and perplexed; “but she said she was sure you would be doing something uncanny up there, and she hoped that no evil would descend upon the village in consequence, for she fully expected that we should be smitten for your sins.”“Did she tell you this?”“No, sir; she said it to Mr Maxted.”“Told the vicar?”“Yes, sir.”“And what did he say?”“She says he insulted her, sir, and that she’ll never go into his church any more. She’s been telling every one so—that he called her a silly, prejudiced old woman.”“Is that all?”“It’s all I can remember, sir.”“And enough too. Look here, Tom, you had, I think, better call David, and tell him to put the pony in and drive you back to the station. I’m sure you would rather go back to your uncle James, and be happy with your cousin Sam.”Tom smiled.“You can’t want to stay here.”“Are you going up to the mill now, uncle?” said Tom, with a quaint look.“Oh yes, directly, if you are going to risk it. Ready?”“Yes, uncle.”“Then come on.”
“Now, Tom, cloak-room; come along. I’ve got some tackle to take down with us. Only ten minutes before we start. Here, porter, luggage—quick!”
A man came forward with a barrow, and after taking the luggage from the cab, followed to the cloak-room, from whence sundry heavy, peculiar-looking packages and a box were handed out and trundled to the train; and in a few minutes, with his heart beating wildly, and a feeling of excitement making him long to jump up and shout aloud, Tom sat there watching the houses and trees seem to glide more and more swiftly past the windows as the speed increased. For to him it was like being suddenly freed from prison; and instead of the black cloud which had been hanging before his eyes—the blank curtain of the future which he had vainly tried to penetrate—he was now gazing mentally ahead along a vista full of bright sunshine and joy.
There were two other passengers in the carriage, who, like his uncle, were soon absorbed in their papers, and not a word was spoken until these two got out at the first stopping-place, twenty miles from town; and as soon as the porter had given the door that tremendous unnecessary bang so popular with his fraternity, and the train was speeding on again, Uncle Richard threw down his paper with a loud “Hah!” and turned to his nephew.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “I don’t know what I am to do with you now I have got you. You don’t want to go on with the law?”
“Oh no, sir, I am too stupid,” said Tom quickly.
“Why do you say ‘sir,’ my boy? Will not uncle do for your mother’s brother?”
“Uncle James told me always to say ‘sir,’ sir—uncle I mean.”
“Ah, but I’m not your Uncle James, and I like the old-fashioned way. Well, as you are too stupid for the law, I suppose I must try you with something easier—say mathematics.”
Tom looked at him aghast.
“A nice pleasant subject, full of calculations. But we shall see. I suppose you will not mind helping me?”
“I shall be glad to, uncle.”
“That’s right; but you don’t know yet what I want you to do. You will have to take your coat off sometimes, work hard, put on an apron, and often get dirty.”
“Gardening, uncle? Oh, I shall like that.”
“Yes; gardening sometimes, but in other ways too. I do a deal of tinkering now and then.” Tom stared.
“Yes, I mean it: with tin and solder, and then I try brass and turning. I have a regular workshop, you know, with a small forge and anvil. Can you blow bellows?”
Tom stared a little harder as he gazed in the clear grey eyes and the calm unruffled countenance, in which there was not the dawn of a smile.
“I never tried,” said Tom, “but I feel sure I could.”
“And I feel sure you cannot without learning; some of the easiest-looking things are the hardest, you know. Of course any one can blow forge bellows after a fashion, but it requires some pains to manage the blast aright, and not send the small coal and sparks flying over the place, while the iron is being burned up.”
“Iron burned up?” said Tom.
“To be sure. If I put a piece in the forge, I could manage the supply of oxygen so as to bring it from a cherry heat right up to a white, while possibly at your first trial you would burn a good deal of the iron away.”
“I did not know that,” said Sam.
“And I suppose there are a few other little things you do not know, my boy. There’s a deal to learn, Tom, and the worst or best of it is, that the more you find out the more you realise that there is no end to discovery. But so much for the blacksmith’s work.”
“But you are not a blacksmith, uncle.”
“Oh yes, I am, Tom, and a carpenter too. A bad workman I know, but I manage what I want. Then there is my new business too at the mill.”
“Steam mill, uncle?”
“Oh no, nor yet water. It’s a regular old-fashioned flour-mill with five sails. How shall you like that business?”
Tom looked harder at his uncle.
“Well, boy, do I seem a little queer? People down at Furzebrough say I am.”
“No, sir,” said Tom, colouring; “but all this does sound a little strange. Do you really mean that you have a windmill?”
“Yes, Tom, now. My very own, my boy. It was about that I came up yesterday—to pay the rest of the purchase-money, and get the deeds. Now we can set to work and do what we like.”
Tom tried hard, but he could not help looking wonderingly at his uncle, of whom he had previously hardly seen anything. He knew that he had been in India till about a year before, and that his mother had once spoken of him as being eccentric. Now it appeared that he was to learn what this eccentricity meant.
“Did you learn any chemistry when you were at school, Tom?” said his uncle, after a pause.
“Very little, uncle. There were some lectures and experiments.”
“All useful, boy. You know something about physics, of course?”
“Physics, uncle?” faltered Tom, as he began to think what an empty-headed fellow he was.
“Yes, physics; not physic—salts and senna, rhubarb and magnesia, and that sort of thing; but natural science, heat and light, and the wonders of optics.”
Tom shook his head.
“Very little, uncle.”
“Ah, well, you’ll soon pick them up if you are interested, and not quite such a fool as your uncle made out. Do you know, Tom, that windmill has made me think that I never could have been a lawyer.”
Tom was silent. Things seemed to be getting worse.
“Four times have I had to come up to town and see my lawyer, who had to see the seller’s lawyer over and over again—the vendor I ought to have said. Now I suppose you wouldn’t have thought that I was a vendee, would you?”
“Oh yes, I know that,” said Sam. “You would be if you bought an estate.”
“Come, then, you do know something, my lad. But it has been a tiresome business, with its investigation of titles and rights of usance, and court copyhold fines, and—Bother the business, it has taken up no end of time. But there, it’s all over, and you and I can go and make the dust fly and set the millstones spinning as much as we like. Thumpers they are, Tom, three feet in diameter. I wish to goodness they had been discs of glass instead of stone.”
“Do you, uncle?” said Tom, for his companion was evidently waiting for an answer.
“Yes; we could have tried some fine experiments with them, whereas they will be useless and unsalable I expect.”
To Tom’s great relief the conversation reverted to his life at Gray’s Inn and Mornington Crescent, for the impression would keep growing upon him that what people said about his uncle’s queerness might have some basis. But this opinion was soon shaken as they went on, for he was questioned very shrewdly about his cousin and all that had passed between them, till all at once his companion held out his hand.
“Shake hands, Tom, my boy. We are just entering Furzebrough parish, and I want to say this:—You came to me with an execrable character—”
“Yes, uncle; I’m very sorry.”
“Then I’m not, my lad. For look here: I have been questioning you for the last hour, and I have observed one thing—in all your statements about your cousin, who is an abominably ill-behaved young whelp, you have never once spoken ill-naturedly about him, nor tried to run him down. I like this, my lad, and in spite of all that has been said, I believe that you and I will be very good friends indeed.”
“Thank you, uncle,” said Tom, huskily. “I mean to try.”
“I know that, or I wouldn’t have brought you home. There, there, look! quick! before it runs behind that fir clump, that’s the old madman’s windmill.”
Tom turned sharply to the window, and caught sight of a five-sailed windmill some five miles away, on a long wooded ridge.
“See it?”
“Yes, uncle; I just caught sight of it.”
“That’s right; and in five minutes, when we are out of the cutting, you can see Heatherleigh in the opening between the two fir-woods.”
“That’s your house, uncle?”
“Yes, my lad—that’s my house, where I carry on all my diabolical schemes, and perform my incantations, as old Mother Warboys says. You didn’t know what a wicked uncle you had.”
“No, sir,” said Tom, smiling.
“Oh, I’m a dreadful wretch; and you did not know either, that within five-and-thirty miles of London as the crow flies, there is as much ignorance and superstition as there was a couple of hundred years or so ago, when they burnt people for being witches and wizards, and the like. There, now look; you can just see Heatherleigh there. No; too late—it’s gone.”
Tom felt puzzled. One minute he was drawn strongly towards his uncle, the next he felt uneasy, for there was something peculiar about him. Then he grew more puzzled as to whether the eccentricity was real or assumed. But he soon had something else to think of, for five minutes after a run through a wild bit of Surrey, that looked gloriously attractive with its sandy cuttings, commons, and fir-trees, to a boy who had been shut up closely for months in London, his uncle suddenly cried, “Here we are!” and rose to get his umbrella and overcoat out of the rack.
“Let’s see, Tom,” he said; “six packages in the van, haven’t we? Mind that nothing is left behind.”
The train was slackening speed, and the next minute they were standing on the platform of a pretty attractive station, quite alone amongst the fir-trees. The station-master’s house was covered with roses and clematis, and he and the porters were evidently famous gardeners in their loneliness, for there was not a house near, the board up giving the name of the station as Furzebrough Road.
“Shall I take the luggage, sir?” said a man, touching his hat; and at the same moment Tom caught sight of a solitary fly standing outside the railings.
“Yes; six packages. By the way, Mr Day, did a box come down for me?”
This to the station-master, who came up as the train glided off and disappeared in a tunnelled sandhill a hundred yards farther.
“Yes, sir; very heavy box, marked ‘Glass, with care.’ Take it with you?”
“Yes, and let it be with care. Here, I’ll come and pay the rates. Tom, my lad, see that the things are all got to the fly.”
Tom nodded; and as his uncle disappeared in the station-master’s office, he went to where the two porters were busy with a barrow and the luggage.
They were laughing and chatting with the flyman, and did not notice Tom’s approach, so that he winced as he heard one of the porters say—
“Always some fresh contrapshum or another. Regular old lunatic, that’s what he is.”
“What’s he going to do with that old mill?” said the other.
“Shoot the moon they—Is this all, sir?” said the flyman, who caught sight of Tom.
The boy nodded, and felt indignant as well as troubled, for he had learned a little about public opinion concerning his uncle.
“Be careful,” he said; “some of those things are glass.”
“All right, sir; we’ll be careful enough. Look alive, Jem. Where will you have the box as come down by’s mornin’s goods?”
“On the footboard. Won’t break us down, will it?”
“Tchah! not it. On’y about a hundredweight.”
By the time the luggage was stowed on and about the fly, Uncle Richard came out, and expressed his satisfaction.
“Rather a lonely place in winter, Tom,” he said, as he entered the stably-smelling old fly.
“Yes, but very beautiful,” replied Tom. “Have we far to go?”
“Three miles, my lad, to the village, and a quarter of a mile further to the house.”
It was a very slow ride, along sandy lanes, through which, as soon as there was the slightest suggestion of a hill, the horse walked; but everything looked lovely on this bright summer day. High banks where ferns clustered, plantations of fir, where brilliantly-plumaged pheasants looked up to see them pass, and every now and then rabbits scuttled up the steep sandy slopes, showing their white cottony tails before they disappeared amongst the bracken, or dived into a hole. Wild-flowers too dotted the sides of the lane, and as Tom sat gazing out of the window, drinking in the country sweets, his uncle nodded and smiled.
“Will it do, my boy?” he said.
“Do!” cried Tom, ecstatically; “it’s lovely!”
“Humph! yes. Sun shines—don’t rain.”
In due time they reached and passed through a pretty flowery village, dotted about by the sides of a green, and with several houses of a better class, all looking as if surrounded by large gardens and orchards. Then, all at once, Tom’s companion exclaimed—
“Here’s the mill!” and he had hardly glanced at the tall round brick tower, with its wooden movable cap, sails, and fan, all looking weather-beaten and dilapidated, when his uncle exclaimed—“Here we are!” and down on a slope, nearly hidden in trees, he saw the red-tiled gables of a very attractive old English house, at whose gate the fly stopped.
“Drive in, sir?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll have the boxes in the stable-yard. Pull up at the door first. But ring, and the gardener will come to help.”
The gate was swung back and the fly was led in, now, between two wide grassy borders, with the soft, sandy gravel making hardly a sound beneath the wheels. This drive wound in and out, so that a couple of minutes had elapsed before they came in sight of the front of the house, with its broad porch and verandah.
“Welcome to Heatherleigh, Tom—our home,” said his uncle. “Ah, here’s Mrs Fidler.”
This was as a very grim, serious-looking, grey-haired woman appeared in the porch.
“Back again, Mrs F.,” cried Uncle Richard cheerily. “Here, this is my nephew, who has come to stay. Get my telegram?”
“Oh yes, sir, and everything’s ready, sir.”
Just then a sun-browned man, with a blue serge apron rolled up and tucked in round his waist, came up, touched his hat, and looked at the luggage.
“Morning, David. The box and portmanteau for indoors. The boxes to be very carefully placed in the coach-house. Glass, mind. Here, driver, give your horse some hay and water; David will see to it, while you go round to the kitchen for a crust of bread-and-cheese. Mind and be careful with those packages.”
“Oh yes, sir, certainly,” said the man; and he led the horse on amongst the shrubs; while as Tom followed his uncle into the prettily-furnished museum-like hall, he thought to himself—
“I wonder whether uncle knows how they laugh at him behind his back.”
“Dinner at two, Mrs Fidler, I suppose?” said Uncle Richard just then.
“Yes, sir, precisely, ifyouplease,” was the reply.
“That’s right. Here, Tom, let’s go and see if they have smashed the glass in the packages.”
Uncle Richard led the way out through a glass door, and across a velvety lawn, to a gate in a closely-clipped yew hedge. This opened upon a well-gravelled yard, where the rusty-looking old fly was standing, with its horse comfortably munching at the contents of its nose-bag, and David the gardener looking on with a pail of water at his feet.
“Why, David, how was it that the horse was not put in the stable and given a feed?”
“He’s having his feed, sir,” said the gardener. “Them’s our oats. The driver said he’d rather not take him out, because the harness do give so, sir, specially the traces; so he had the nose-bag pretty well filled, and the horse have been going at ’em, sir, tremenjus.”
“Boxes all right?”
“Yes, sir; I don’t think we’ve broke anything; but that big chest did come down pretty heavy.”
“What?” cried his master; and he hurried into the coach-house to examine the packing-case. “Humph! I hope they have not broken it,” he muttered; “I won’t stop to open it now. Come, Tom, we’ll just walk round the garden, so that you may see my domain, and then I’ll show you your room.”
The domain proved to be a fairly extensive garden in the most perfect order, and Tom stared at the tokens of abundance. Whether he was gazing at fruit or flowers, it was the same: the crop looked rich and tempting in the extreme.
“We won’t stop now, my lad. Let’s go and see if Mrs F. has put your room ready.”
Uncle Richard led the way, with Tom feasting his eyes upon the many objects which filled him with wonder and delight; and even then it all seemed to be so dreamlike, that he half expected to wake up and find that he had been dozing in the hot office in Gray’s Inn.
But it was all real, and he looked with delight at the snug little room, whose window opened upon the garden, from which floated scents and sounds to which he had long been a stranger.
“Look sharp and wash your hands, boy, the dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes, I see, and Mrs Fidler is very particular. Will your room do?”
“Do, uncle!” cried Tom, in a tone which meant the extreme of satisfaction.
“That’s right. You see they’ve brought up your box. Come down as soon as you are ready.”
He went out and closed the door; and, with his head in a whirl, Tom felt as if he could do nothing but stand there and think; but his uncle’s words were still ringing in his ears, and hurriedly removing the slight traces of his journey, he took one more look from his window over the soft, fresh, sloping, far-stretching landscape of garden, orchard, fir-wood, and stream far below in the hollow, and then looked round to the right, to see standing towering up within thirty yards, the windmill, with its broken sails and weatherworn wooden cap.
He had time for no more. A bell was being rung somewhere below, and he hurried down, eager to conform to his uncle’s wishes.
“This way, Tom,” greeted him; and his uncle pointed to the hat-pegs. “You’d better take to those two at the end, and stick to them, for Mrs Fidler’s a bit of a tyrant with me—with us it will be now. Place for everything, she says, and everything in its place—don’t you, old lady?”
“Yes, sir,” said the housekeeper, who was just inside the little dining-room door, in a stiff black silk dress, with white bib and apron, and quaint, old-fashioned white cap. “It saves so much trouble, Master Tom, especially in a household like this, where your uncle is always busy with some new contrivance.”
“Quite right,” said Uncle Richard. “So take your chair there, Tom, and keep to it. What’s for dinner? We’re hungry.”
Mrs Fidler smiled as she took her place at the head of the table, and a neat-looking maid-servant came and removed the covers, displaying a simple but temptingly cooked meal, to which the travellers did ample justice.
But Tom was not quite comfortable at first, for Mrs Fidler seemed to be looking very severely at him, as if rather resenting his presence, and sundry thoughts of his being an interloper began to trouble the lad, as he wondered how things would turn out. Every now and then, too, something was said which suggested an oddity about his uncle, which would give rise to all sorts of unpleasant thoughts. Still nothing could have been warmer than his welcome; and every now and then something cropped up which made the boy feel that this was not to be a temporary place of sojourning, but his home for years to come.
“There,” exclaimed Uncle Richard, when they rose from the table, “this is a broken day for you, so you had better take your cap and have a good look round at the place and village. Tea at six punctually. Don’t be late, or Mrs Fidler will be angry.”
“I don’t like to contradict you, sir,” said the housekeeper, smiling gravely; “but as Master Tom is to form one of the household now, he ought, I think, to know the truth.”
“Eh? The truth? Of course. What about?”
“Our way of living here, Master Tom,” said the housekeeper, turning to him. “I should never presume to be angry with your uncle, sir; I only carry out his wishes. He is the most precise gentleman I ever met. Everything has to be to the minute; and as to dusting or moving any of the things in his workshop or labour atory, I—”
“Oh!” exclaimed Uncle Richard, grinding his teeth and screwing up his face. “My good Mrs Fidler, don’t!”
“What have I done, sir?” exclaimed the housekeeper.
“Say workshop, and leave laboratory alone.”
“Certainly, sir, if you wish it.”
“That’s right. Well, Tom, what are you waiting for?”
“I thought, if you wouldn’t mind, I should like to help you unpack the boxes.”
“Oh, by all means, boy. Come along; but I’m going to have a look over the windmill first—my windmill, Mrs Fidler, now. All settled.”
“I’m very glad you’ve got over the bother, sir.”
“Oh, dear me, no,” said Uncle Richard, laughing; “it has only just began. Well, what is it?”
“I didn’t speak, sir.”
“No, but you looked volumes. What have they been saying now?”
“Don’t ask me, sir, pray,” said the housekeeper, looking terribly troubled. “I can’t bear to hear such a good man as you are—”
“Tut! stuff, woman. Nothing of the kind, Tom. I’m not a good man, only an overbearing, nigger-driving old indigo planter, who likes to have his own way in everything. Now then, old lady, out with it. I like to hear what the fools tattle about me; and besides, I want Tom here to know what sort of a character I have in Furzebrough.”
“I—I’d really rather not say, sir. I don’t want to hear these things, but people will talk to David and cook and Jenny, and it all comes to me.”
“Well, I want to hear. Out with it.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t ask me, sir.”
“Can’t help it, Mrs Fidler. Come.”
“Bromley the baker told cook, sir, that if you were going to grind your own flour, you might bake your own bread, for not a loaf would he make of it.”
“Glad of it. Then we should eat bread made of pure wheat-meal without any potatoes and ground bones in it. Good for us, eh, Tom?”
“Better, uncle,” said the boy, smiling.
“Well, what next?”
“Doctor told David out in the lane that he was sure you had a bee in your bonnet.”
“To be sure: so I have; besides hundreds and thousands in the hives. Go on.”
“And Jane heard down the village that they’re not going to call it Pinson’s mill any more.”
“Why should they? Pinson’s dead and gone these four years. It’s Richard Brandon’s mill now.”
“Yes, sir, but they’ve christened it Brandon’s Folly.”
“Ha, ha! So it is. But what is folly to some is wisdom to others. What next? Does old Mother Warboys say I am going to hold wizards’ sabbaths up in the top storey, and ride round on the sails o’ windy nights?”
“Not exactly that, sir,” said Mrs Fidler, looking sadly troubled and perplexed; “but she said she was sure you would be doing something uncanny up there, and she hoped that no evil would descend upon the village in consequence, for she fully expected that we should be smitten for your sins.”
“Did she tell you this?”
“No, sir; she said it to Mr Maxted.”
“Told the vicar?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what did he say?”
“She says he insulted her, sir, and that she’ll never go into his church any more. She’s been telling every one so—that he called her a silly, prejudiced old woman.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s all I can remember, sir.”
“And enough too. Look here, Tom, you had, I think, better call David, and tell him to put the pony in and drive you back to the station. I’m sure you would rather go back to your uncle James, and be happy with your cousin Sam.”
Tom smiled.
“You can’t want to stay here.”
“Are you going up to the mill now, uncle?” said Tom, with a quaint look.
“Oh yes, directly, if you are going to risk it. Ready?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Then come on.”