Uncle Stephen

by Forrest Reid

  ‘I’ve been in the train most of the afternoon,’ Tom explained. ‘I was quite clean when I started.’

  Mr. Knox nodded. ‘It’s always a dusty business travelling, especially at this time of year and with the windows open.’ He again took up his paper and pencil so that Tom could not very well interrupt him by further conversation.

  He wanted to: he wanted to ask questions about Kilbarron—questions which must lead eventually to Uncle Stephen. Mr. Knox must know Uncle Stephen. Unfortunately he remained absorbed in his puzzle, occasionally filling in a blank—rather tentatively as Tom could see—but more often chewing the end of his pencil.

  Tom re-examined the inscriptions and had another look out of the window, but nothing was altered except that now several of the male passengers were on the railway line conversing in more or less injured tones. Their remarks were uninteresting and their suggestions to the guard futile. Tom took off his cap and rubbed an inquiring finger softly over the top of his head. The result was worse than he had expected. Jane had made a mess of it! There was a whole patch near the crown of his head that felt quite smooth. It was well she hadn’t done it till after dinner or his step-mother would have been sure to notice. But she must have made an awful mark! Suddenly he became conscious that the young clergyman’s eyes were fixed on him over the top of his newspaper. Tom blushed and hastily put on his cap. ‘Now he very likely imagines I’ve got ringworm,’ he thought. ‘He’ll be changing into another carriage.’

  He decided to explain once more—this time that he was free from contagious diseases. ‘My sister cut my hair,’ he said. ‘At least, she’s not really my sister. I expect it’s pretty awful. I was in such a hurry I hadn’t time to look at it, but she told me it was all right.’ He hoped Mr. Knox would confirm this view, but Mr. Knox remained dumb. He consulted a gold watch, and then produced a pipe, which he filled and lighted. Tom, after a brief hesitation, produced a crushed packet of cigarettes.

  They smoked in silence.

  ‘You’re not a scout, are you?’ asked Mr. Knox suddenly.

  ‘No,’ said Tom.

  ‘I thought not.’

  Tom felt snubbed. But if this parson believed scouts never smoked he must be jolly innocent. He felt inclined to tell him so. His cigarette wasn’t half finished, and he had only three more, but he chucked it out of the window.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ asked Mr. Knox.

  Tom was embarrassed. ‘I thought you didn’t like to see me,’ he said.

  Mr. Knox puffed for a minute or two without speaking. Then he removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘I rather fancied that was the reason. It was an uncommonly gentlemanly thing to do. If over you should think of becoming a scout I’d like to have you in my troop. But I don’t expect you belong to these parts.’

  ‘No,’ Tom murmured, his embarrassment increased by Mr. Knox’s approval. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  ‘And you’re coming on a visit to Kilbarron? I wonder if I know your name—your surname, I mean—I think I know nearly everybody in this neighbourhood.’

  ‘My name is Thomas Barber.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t know you. Thomas, is it, or Tom?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘My name is Knox. But perhaps I know the people you are going to stay with.’

  ‘I’m going to stay with Unc—with Mr. Stephen Collet.’

  The effect of this was delightful. It caused Mr. Knox to look at him with a vastly increased interest. In fact, he seemed more than interested.

  ‘You see, I’m his nephew,’ Tom went on. ‘Or at least I’m his grand-nephew. But he doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know I’m coming. He was Mother’s uncle, and when Daddy died I thought I’d come to him. I haven’t written or anything. I told you I was going to stay with him, but I shouldn’t really have said so, because I don’t know yet. He mayn’t let me stay: he mayn’t even believe I am his nephew.’

  Tom poured out this information in an uninterrupted stream, which ceased abruptly, leaving Mr. Knox looking more surprised than ever.

  ‘But—You mean you’ve run away from home—is that it? Or is it that you now have no home?’

  ‘I ran away from my step-mother’s… . She’s quite decent,’ he hastily added. ‘You mustn’t think there was anything—any cause. It was just because—Uncle Stephen belonged to Mother.’ The last words came in so low a voice that they could barely have reached his companion.

  That they had reached him, however, was apparent in his own altered tone when he replied, ‘I understand.’ After which he paused, and Tom read in his face a genuine kindness. Indeed he could hardly have believed it was the same Mr. Knox whom he had watched doing crosswords, who had rebuked the engine-driver, and who had rejected the invitation to walk to Kilbarron. ‘I have only spoken to Mr. Collet once,’ this new Mr. Knox went on, ‘but I think it very likely he will understand too.’

  ‘Then you do know him?’ said Tom, a little wistfully.

  Mr. Knox hesitated, but finally, and as if reluctantly, shook his head. ‘There’s no use pretending. Of course, I have only been at Kilbarron a little over a year, but I don’t think that makes much difference: I don’t think anybody knows Mr. Collet. I don’t think anybody has been given the chance. Ever since he came to the Manor House—or at least so I have been told—he has kept entirely to himself… . A recluse.’

  Tom recalled Uncle Horace’s similar description. ‘But if he is—so reclusive as all that—’ he pondered doubtfully.

  Mr. Knox had a further pause. Then he seemed to make up his mind.’ Not a bit of it,’ he replied briskly. ‘And you won’t find him really an old man either. His eyes are as young as yours. They’re very remarkable eyes—very deep and blue and clear—extraordinary… . I won’t say that some boys mightn’t be a little afraid of him at first (he doesn’t look, and he isn’t dressed quite like other people), but I’ve a notion you won’t be. I rather imagine he’s the very uncle for you, or, if you think it should be put the other way, that you’re the very nephew for him.’

  Tom turned to the deepening glow of sunset. ‘I’m glad you like him,’ he said softly.

  There was just the faintest, faintest stressing of the ‘you’, but Mr. Knox looked pleased. ‘Ah,’ he as softly replied, ‘you are his nephew.’ And then, as Tom’s gaze fixed itself on him in a kind of questioning muteness, ‘Don’t bother,’ he added. ‘I did mean something, but I’m not myself sure what. At all events it had nothing to do with outward appearances, for you aren’t in the least like him to look at—even after making every allowance for all the years between you.’

  ‘You don’t think—’ Tom began. ‘You don’t think he’ll be angry with me?’

  ‘No… . And, if you should meet anybody else—I shouldn’t ask questions about him.’

  Tom gazed, feeling not very sure what this meant. ‘I don’t think I understand,’ he said.

  ‘I mean, when you reach Kilbarron. Go straight to Mr. Collet.’

  Of course,’ said Tom, though he was still puzzled. ‘That’s what I intended to do.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right then. You’ll have no difficulty in finding your way: I can put you on the road.’

  ‘Ought I not to have asked you questions?’ Tom said, after a longish pause, in which he had been turning the matter over.

  ‘Yes, of course. I only meant—’ Mr. Knox, however, found it hard to express what he had meant. ‘Kilbarron is a small country town,’ he went on. ‘With two or three exceptions the inhabitants belong to the semi-educated class, and a good many of them are not even that. Among such people you usually find a good deal of narrow-mindedness and bigotry: also, I’m afraid, superstition. Quite a number of them believe in charms, and fairies, and that kind of rubbish, for instance.’

  Tom had already picked up the drift of these remarks. That was why he wasn’t to ask questions. ‘You mean they don’t like Uncle Stephen?’ he asked.

  ‘They know nothing about him. It’s enough for t
hem that he rarely comes out from his own house and grounds, and that there is something in his appearance slightly unusual:—not that the vast majority of them have ever even seen him. And by the way, it’s quite possible, in fact it’s practically certain, that you’ll find Mr. Collet alone in the house. It’s a biggish place, too, with a lot of trees, and it will be dark, I dare say, when you get there—’

  ‘I know,” said Tom quietly.

  ‘What do you know?’ Mr. Knox’s eyes were fixed earnestly on him, but it was, Tom imagined, an expression not uncommon to them. He thought Mr. Knox took things very seriously and would not easily see a joke. He was that kind; but Tom liked him.

  ‘I know that you think perhaps I’ll be frightened, and that you don’t want me to be, because there’s nothing really to be frightened about.’

  ‘There is nothing.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be. I mean, I won’t show it. It’s not that kind of thing I’m afraid of.’

  ‘What kind of thing are you afraid of?’

  But Tom did not answer. He could not explain to Mr. Knox that he would be afraid of nothing so long as Uncle Stephen was really Uncle Stephen, and that if he should find he wasn’t, it wouldn’t then much matter what else he was—or matter about the house, or the darkness, or the trees, or the villagers, or anything.

  CHAPTER VI

  About two hours later they rattled into Kilbarron station where, having got wind of the accident, quite a number of persons had assembled. Tom’s arrival thus became a rather public matter. Everybody stared at him as he walked to the exit beside Mr. Knox, who also accompanied him down the main street, and then, on the outskirts of the town, pointed out his way. He was to go straight on for about a mile and a half, when he would reach a bridge crossing the river. Here he was to take the first turning on his left—Tinker’s Lane, it was called—a short cut which would bring him out close to the house. He would see a wall, and he was to follow this wall till he came to a wooden gate; he couldn’t make a mistake for there was no other house near.

  So along the road Tom trudged, swinging the famous parcel, his shoes white with dust. The sun had almost reached the horizon, leaving a green liquid sky against which homing birds were black as ink. And not a soul did he meet till he drew near the bridge, where a young man stood facing him, with his right arm stretched along the parapet. It was perhaps the solitude of this unexpected figure which caused Tom, though only while one might draw a breath, to slacken his pace. The attitude of the loiterer was graceful and indolent, he might have been standing for his portrait, yet somehow at that first glance Tom had received a faintly disquieting impression, which the dark eyes fixed on him intently did nothing to remove. He thought of gypsies, for this young man, in his rough homespun jacket and leather leggings, did not look like a farm labourer, though he might have been a gamekeeper; but his deeply tanned complexion and the bright scarlet neckcloth he wore loosely knotted round his muscular throat were very much in keeping with Tom’s conception of a gipsy, and he wondered if there was a camp in the neighbourhood.

  And all this time he continued to advance, though with a growing embarrassment. For the young man’s stare was persistent, and Tom could not escape from it, even though he kept his own gaze averted. Nor did he altogether like the brown surly face upon which short black hairs showed a weekly shave to be nearly due. There was something in his expression to which he was unaccustomed—something boldly investigatory, vaguely predatory. He himself kept his eyes fixed on the landscape, nor was it till he was actually abreast of the figure leaning against the parapet that the latter spoke. ‘Evening!’ he said.

  Tom replied with equal brevity, and had passed on a few yards when an unaccountable impulse made him mm and ask, ‘Is this Tinker’s Lane?’ He pointed to the only lane there was, branching off on the left, and which he knew very well must be the one he wanted.

  And instantly he knew that the young man knew he knew. He did not even trouble to reply, but their eyes met and Tom blushed crimson. Then, with a smile that was only just sufficient to show a gleam of very small and very perfect teeth, the young man asked, ‘Who’ll you be looking for?’

  ‘I want the Manor House.’

  ‘Collet’s? You going to work there?’

  ‘No,’ answered Tom, and pursued his way.

  He had not gone more than twenty yards before he heard footsteps behind him. He was startled, though there was no reason why he should be, except that the young man on the bridge had presented a picture of a kind of feline laziness not likely to be abandoned without a purpose. Tom’s inclination was to walk more quickly, but pride and annoyance prevented him from doing so, with the consequence that in two or three minutes the young man was by his side though not actually abreast with him.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir: I made a mistake; but there’s no offence I hope.’

  Tom, without turning, replied that it was all right; yet his companion did not drop behind. On the contrary, they were now walking in step together, the young, man having accommodated his stride to the boy’s. ‘My mother s Mr. Collet’s housekeeper,’ he said, in a deep, slightly husky voice. ‘But she doesn’t sleep there. Deverell’s her name—and mine. Our cottage is across them fields:

  This time Tom did not answer. Out of the tail of his eye he could see that young Deverell’s face was turned to him, and he had again the unpleasant sense of being subjected to a prolonged and very searching scrutiny.

  ‘I though I’d better tell you, because unless something’s kept her working late you’d maybe be knocking a long while and nobody hear you. The girl—Sally Dempsey—she doesn’t sleep in either… . You’ll be a friend of Mr. Collet’s perhaps? ‘

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom, quickening his pace.

  The young man’s stride—noiseless, effortless—still kept step with him: he might as well have tried to outdistance a leopard or a wolf.

  ‘I don’t mind seeing you in these parts before. Would the old gentleman be expecting you to-night?’

  ‘No,’ Tom replied.

  ‘Then he mightn’t hear you knocking, and him reading in his books. So if you’d come to the cottage mother would go back with you.’

  ‘I think I’ll go on to the house, thanks. Your mother mayn’t be at the cottage.’

  Tom spoke, or imagined he spoke, coldly and distantly, but he was not very good at producing such effects, and his companion seemed to notice nothing amiss. He continued to walk close by his elbow. ‘You’ll be staying on a visit with Mr. Collet, likely?’ he suggested.

  ‘I dare say. I don’t know.’

  To make it perfectly plain that he wished to be alone, he stepped aside, and began to walk along the grass close to the hedge. But this manoeuvre was unsuccessful: he caught his foot in a bramble. He tripped, and would have fallen had he not instantly been steadied by a firm grasp round his body. There was something so miraculously swift in the movement which had saved him that even through his annoyance Tom felt a reluctant admiration.

  ‘It’s not easy seeing in this light,’ Deverell said quietly. ‘You’d best keep to the middle of the road.’

  Tom, a little out of countenance, accepted the advice. Between the high banks, topped by still higher hedgerows, the light had deepened to twilight. Moths were astir; a white cloudy moon was rising; and when they came to a stile he caught a glimpse of the river, its winding course indicated by a faint mist that hung above it. Tom paused and looked out across the fading meadows, while Deverell waited beside him.

  But it was getting late and he stood there only for a minute or two. ‘I’ll take this for you,’ said Deverell gruffly, possessing himself of the parcel without paying any attention to Tom’s refusal.

  And they walked on again, now in silence, except that Deverell had begun to whistle softly and in a plaintive minor key. It would be lighter, Tom supposed, when they got out of the lane, which seemed to grow deeper and deeper as they proceeded, that solitary stile being the only gap they had yet come to. The faint scent of briar and me
adowsweet was pleasant in the dusk. He kept his gaze fixed on the track before him so that he might avoid treading on the snails.

  And by and by he took the paper of cigarettes from his pocket and offered, it to Deverell. ‘You may as well have them: I don’t want to smoke any more.’

  The lane had been bearing all the time to the right, and now began to wind uphill. They must soon reach the end of it, Tom thought, and indeed before Deverell had finished his cigarette they emerged on to a road which he knew was the one he wanted. Along one side of it ran a stone wall higher than his head, and beyond the wall rose the trees of what must be the Manor estate. At this point Deverell stopped and held out the parcel. ‘I think I’ll be bidding you good-night here. The gate’s just round that bend.’

  Tom took the parcel shamefacedly. ‘It was very good of you to carry, it, and to come all this distance out of your way.’

  ‘You re welcome,’ said Deverell.

  Tom fumbled with the string of his parcel: he wanted to say something more—something that might make up a little for the suspicions he had shown; but all he could think of was, ‘My name is Tom Barber.’

  In the shadow, where they had halted, he guessed, rather than saw, that Deverell’s dark eyes were looking at him—guessed really from his attitude more than anything, for he had put his hands in his pockets and was standing, with his legs slightly apart, directly facing him. ‘What were you feared of?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  ‘Nothing,’ answered Tom. ‘I thought you were—’ He was on the point of saying ‘a gipsy’, but checked himself in time, though he could hit on no politer explanation of his behaviour.

  ‘Still, you were frightened, and then about half roads down the lane it stopped.’

  ‘That’s quite true,’ said Tom simply. Then he added, ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I knew well enough.’