by Forrest Reid
Stephen had become very quiet all of a sudden! And it was not like him to sit like this. Through the cool, bright sunshine there came the sound of Robert whistling a hymn tune. Robert himself remained invisible: he invariably did. He seemed to live and conduct all his labours in thickets and behind bushes: he was the shyest person Tom had ever met. Tom stole a cautious glance at Stephen; but he did not want to disturb him, and remained quiet as a mouse. Robert’s tune also had ceased. Tom turned ever so little so that he could watch Stephen’s face. What was it that made the chief attraction of a human face? Was it the line or the colour or the expression? Why should the dirt on Stephen’s hands, where unconsciously he had been rubbing them against the iron bench, be pleasant? Dirty hands weren’t as a rule pleasant. The remarkable reflection occurred to Tom that Stephen would still be beautiful—to him at any rate—if he were dirty all over. That was strange, though he remembered he had always found young chimney-sweeps attractive: their dirty faces made their eyes so extraordinarily bright. But this was the kind of thought he had to keep to himself. There were a good many thoughts he had learned to keep to himself. Not that he would have minded telling them to Uncle Stephen. Uncle Stephen was the only person with whom he had ever felt there was no need to conceal anything. He was, too, the only person who had ever really loved him. His mother had loved him, of course, and Deverell too had loved him, but they had only loved part of him, because they had only known part of him. Uncle Stephen knew all—good, bad, and indifferent.
A hideous screech from a motor-horn interrupted Tom’s cogitations. Surely it couldn’t be a visitor to the Manor! The only possible visitor was Mr. Knox, and he rode a bicycle. There was no doubt of it, however; a car had entered the avenue, and Tom in alarm gazed fixedly at the point where it would come into view.
There was another hoot. It was not Mr. Flood’s car; it was a big car; and next moment it swept round the corner and sped on to the house. Tom uttered a faint, protesting exclamation. But really it was sickening! For there, in the driver’s seat, spick and span in dark-blue uniform, sat the dour and saturnine Shanks. Simultaneously he felt Stephen’s body tauten, and mining, saw that his face had lost its absent-mindedness and become intensely alert.
‘Don’t,’ he murmured, not quite knowing what he meant, only that he was sure Stephen had become filled with a zest for action and would do or say something irremediable.
‘Don’t what?’ Stephen answered.
‘Don’t do anything,’ Tom completed feebly.
At the same time he held out a restraining hand. ‘It’s Uncle Horace and Mr. Knox,’ he said. ‘But they haven’t seen us.’ Stephen had half risen. He shook off Tom’s hand: his face was alive with curiosity and excitement. ‘What’s that thing they’re in? I never saw anything like it. How does it work? I’m going to have a look at it.’
‘No, no,’ Tom implored him. ‘It’s only a motor-car. You’ll see plenty of them. Please, Stephen, stay where you are.’
Stephen submitted, but not without a visible struggle, and meanwhile the car drew up and the two visitors got out. They went straight into the porch.
‘What are we going to do?’ whispered Tom. ‘I never dreamt of Uncle Horace coming. He can’t possibly have heard—’
‘Don’t worry; it will be all right.’
But how was it going to be all right? Tom couldn’t imagine anything more all wrong! ‘You don’t know Uncle Horace!’ he said, casting a covetous glance at the shrubbery. ‘He’s far cleverer than either Mr. Flood or Mr. Knox. He’ll find out the whole thing in about two ticks.’
‘He won’t. You leave it to me. Just tell them what you told Mrs. Deverell.’
Stephen spoke confidently, even with a mysterious elation, which inspired in Tom the utmost misgiving. But he had no time to inquire into its source, for Uncle Horace and Mr. Knox had already ended their colloquy with Mrs. Deverell and were now bearing down upon them. The curate waved his hand, and Tom had sufficient presence of mind to wave in return, but he felt a weakness in his stomach as he rose to his feet.
Stephen gave him a shove. ‘Don’t stand there staring at them as if you were stuffed! Go and meet them. What are you in such a pee about?’
But Tom still hesitated.
‘I tell you it will be all right,’ Stephen went on impatiently. ‘That is, if you don’t give the whole show away at the very start.’
‘I won’t,’ Tom promised, but he felt he would, or at least that it was extremely likely. He followed Stephen’s injunctions, however, and advanced to meet his visitors.
Mr. Knox greeted him with extreme friendliness. So, for that matter, did Uncle Horace, who radiated geniality in an astonishing manner. ‘Good morning, Tom. I suppose you’re surprised to see me. But I ran down this rime to pay Mr. Knox a visit.’
‘I’m very glad to see you, Uncle Horace,’ Tom replied faintly.
‘Yes—yes. We’ve had our little quarrels, but I don’t think we’re enemies yet. Our last meeting was unfortunate, but I dare say there were faults on both sides.’
‘There were faults on my side at any rate,’ said Tom.
‘Odious little prig!’ he thought immediately afterwards, but Uncle Horace positively beamed. ‘Your step-mother sent her love to you. I told her I didn’t think I’d be seeing you—but there it is. Jane sent hers also: she wanted me to bring her.’
‘I hope they are very well,’ said Tom.
‘Very well, thank you: very well indeed.’
A sudden pause followed this exchange of amenities, and for a moment nephew and uncle regarded each other a trifle self-consciously.
‘Did you drive down this morning, Uncle Horace?’ Tom inquired, still in the same flute-like tones. ‘You must have made a very early start.’
‘No, no: arrived yesterday. But we had a breakdown a few miles out of Kilbarron and were late. So, as Shanks seemed doubtful about the return journey, and the hotel looked passable, I decided to put up there for the night. Shanks wanted to overhaul the car, and that gave him plenty of time.’
Uncle Stephen isn’t here,’ said Tom, lowering his eyes. ‘I suppose Mrs. Deverell told you.’
‘Yes. She told as he mightn’t be back for a day or two.’
‘At least,’ Tom amended.
But Uncle Horace’s attention had veered towards the unknown boy hovering in the background, and Tom performed an introduction. ‘This is Stephen—Philip, I mean,’ he said nervously.
‘Philip Stephen,’ Uncle Horace repeated, holding out his hand.
The mistake was instantly corrected by Stephen himself ‘No, sir; Stephen Collet. Philip’s only a kind of nickname.’
Tom drew a quick breath. Luckily nobody was looking at him, for he knew his face had betrayed the shock Stephen’s unexpected avowal had given him. ‘He’s my friend,’ he stammered. ‘He’s staying with me. Mr. Knox knows about him.’
The moment he had made this speech he realized that it too was wrong—sounded as if he were apologizing for Stephen, vouching for him. Mr. Knox noticed his embarrassment and came to the rescue. ‘You’re the boy who has been living in the other house?’ he said, shaking hands with Stephen in his turn. Tom told me about you, but I don’t think he mentioned your name. It’s an odd coincidence, for I suppose really you are no relation of Mr. Collet’s. I remember he told me Tom was his only nephew.’
‘So he is,’ Uncle Horace chimed in.
‘My father was a relation,’ Stephen answered quietly.
Uncle Horace looked at him, but made no reply. Mr. Knox’s scrutiny was more prolonged and ruminative. ‘Forgive me for staring, Stephen,’ he apologized, ‘but—’ He turned to Uncle Horace. ‘Don’t you see a likeness?’
‘A likeness?’ Uncle Horace hesitated. ‘A likeness to Mr. Collet, do you mean? Well, I have only met him once, you know.’ He paused again. Still—now you mention it—Yes, perhaps—’
‘To me it is striking,’ said Mr. Knox. ‘As a matter of fact, I was trying to think of whom he reminded me ev
en before I heard his name. The very unusual colour of the eyes—so dark a blue. And the shape of the forehead—’
‘Won’t you come in, Uncle Horace,’ Tom suggested desperately, but Uncle Horace brushed the interruption aside with a gesture. ‘Your father, you say, is a relative of Mr. Collet’s?’ he questioned, his eyes fixed on Stephen’s face.
Yes, sir. He was a relative; but both he and my mother are dead. My father was Mr. Collet’s son.’
‘His son!’
Tom drew back. Stephen had deliberately done this, and it left him helpless. It was the plan, he supposed, he had concocted a few minutes ago—the plan which was to set everything right! Well, if assurance could do it, the assurance was there. Stephen’s gaze was serene and steadfast, his face unclouded. Tom waited in a kind of angry suspense for what would come next, but to his astonishment it came in Uncle Horace’s suavest tones. ‘I always understood Mr. Collet had never married.’
‘No, sir. My father was his natural son.’
Tom choked back the protest that rose to his lips. How could he protest, even though he believed Stephen had invented this story wantonly because he enjoyed it?
Uncle Horace had turned away. His gaze rested with unusual dreaminess on the quiet sunlit park. Mr. Knox, too, looked only puzzled. Tom’s head drooped.
He followed the others slowly, for they had begun to walk back towards the bench he and Stephen had vacated. They reached it, and Uncle Horace and Mr. Knox sat down, before another word was spoken. Even then, Uncle Horace’s first remark was more like a continuation of his private thoughts than a question. ‘Both your parents are dead, you say?’
Tom had squatted down on the grass: Stephen remained standing and facing Uncle Horace, a picture of candid and artless boyhood. ‘My father died when I was two years old,’ he explained. ‘I don’t remember him. My mother was drowned only a few months ago—in a boating accident—near Sorrento.’
‘Very sad—very sad,’ Uncle Horace mused. ‘You had been living abroad, then—till you came here?’
‘Yes, sir, in Italy. I think it was because it was cheaper there than anywhere else. We weren’t very well off, you see, and we never stayed long in one place—I don’t know why.’
‘But you went to school, I suppose?’
‘Only for a few months—once—in Rome. My mother taught me. She had been a teacher before she married. She was English.’
Mr. Knox, who so far had been as dumb as Tom himself, now made a remark. ‘I could have sworn you were the product of an English public school,’ he said.
Tom was startled: he even glanced reproachfully at the curate. It was fortunate that Uncle Horace disliked interruptions. Therefore, instead of encouraging Mr. Knox, he pursued his own inquiry. ‘Then you’ve lived all your life abroad, have you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you came over here at Mr. Collet’s invitation?’
Stephen hesitated. ‘No-o: he replied, drawing out the word reluctantly. ‘But—he was the only person I could go to. I mean—there wasn’t anybody else.’
‘I see… . You knew his address, of course?’
There was a slight pause, and Tom waited anxiously. Uncle Horace was asking a terrific number of questions—even for him! Tom had never known him so bad before. But he supposed it was because Uncle Stephen was mixed up in the matter, and Stephen himself did not appear to mind.
‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I had to find it out after I came over. I mean, I didn’t know the exact address: I couldn’t write to him—or at least I didn’t think I could. I came because I had to do something… . My mother used occasionally to get work from newspapers—translating English stories into Italian. And now and then she had a pupil for Italian conversation; but even with that we only just managed to scrape along, and I wasn’t earning anything. She wouldn’t allow me to take the only kind of job I might have got—as a message-boy, or in a shop.’
Uncle Horace nodded: he seemed pleased with Stephen. On the other hand, though he hoped he was mistaken, Tom was almost sure that Mr. Knox was not pleased. He was looking at Stephen and there was in his eyes just a shade of—no, not incredulity, incredulity was too strong a word to describe the vague dissatisfaction lurking in the curate’s expression. It was as if there were something in what he had been listening to that he did not quite like, that slightly jarred upon him. Tom saw him on the point of making a remark, and then repressing it, and then finally yielding to the temptation to bring it out. ‘You weren’t living at the Manor, were you?’ Mr. Knox asked.
Stephen turned quickly, and for the first time appeared to scent an antagonist. His eyes momentarily sought Tom’s, who had been watching the whole scene motionless as an image, the tip of his tongue slightly protruding between his lips. ‘He was living at the other house,’ Tom broke in quickly. ‘I told you that.’
Yes, I remember your telling me. Camping out, I suppose. It can’t have been very comfortable.’
Tom’s face darkened. ‘We only used one room,’ he replied. ‘An upstairs room. It was quite comfortable.’
The pronoun was not lost on Mr. Knox. He regarded Tom rather sadly. ‘You didn’t stay there, did you?’
‘Have you heard from your uncle yet?’ Uncle Horace interrupted with a hint of impatience. ‘Has he told you when he is coming back?’
Mr. Knox immediately withdrew from the discussion, and Tom answered, ‘No’.
‘Where is he?’
‘I—He didn’t tell me.’
‘But I thought you saw him off? The housekeeper said you did.’
‘Yes, I drove part of the way with him. You see, it was quite unexpected. This man called for him.’
‘What man?’
‘A very nice man.’
Uncle Horace looked at Tom and the look was entirely in his old manner. Tom blushed. It was more, however, from indignation than embarrassment. Here had Uncle Horace been swallowing all Stephen’s outrageous story without a protest; yet the very first thing he said aroused suspicion.
‘Don’t you even know his name?’ Uncle Horace persisted. ‘Weren’t you introduced to him?’
‘Yes.’ Tom had a sudden happy thought. ‘His name was Spinelli,’ he declared confidently. ‘Uncle Stephen knew him long ago in Italy. They were, I think, partners.’
‘Partners?’
‘I mean they worked together. I’ve forgotten the word.’
‘Accomplices?’ suggested Uncle Horace grimly.
‘Collaborators.’ But next moment Tom laughed.
‘What are you laughing at?’ Uncle Horace snapped.
‘Well, it was rather funny,’ Tom apologized.
‘What was funny?’
‘Your joke—the way you said it… . You know you do say things like that, Uncle Horace, and you must know they’re funny, even though you may be cross when you say them.’
Uncle Horace gave him another look, but not really an angry, one, and Mr. Knox took out his watch. ‘I think I must be going,’ he remarked.
‘Why?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s very nearly dinner-time, and Uncle Horace will be having dinner with us. Do stay.’
Mr. Knox wavered, glancing at Uncle Horace, who immediately said, ‘I shan’t be staying either’.
‘But you must,’ cried Tom. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but you must, all the same.’
Uncle Horace flushed, and Mr. Knox involuntarily asked, ‘What was he thinking?’
Tom did not answer. His eyes were still fixed on Uncle Horace. ‘Uncle Stephen would want you to stay. He’ll not be pleased with me if you don’t.’
‘All right—all right,’ returned Uncle Horace hastily. Then, after a moment, he added, ‘Come with me for a little stroll, Tom. I want to have a word with you. And at any rate if you’re to be my host you ought to show me over the grounds.’
Tom got up at once, though it was not without a feeling of anxiety that he left the others behind. Something in Mr. Knox’s manner made him uneasy. It suggested either that he had taken a dislike
to Stephen or else was not satisfied with his story. But he would hardly continue to question him when they were alone, for he was the last person in the world to try to drive anybody into a corner. Tom had a high opinion of Mr. Knox. He did not think he was clever, but he knew he was a gentleman. That was the difference between him and Uncle Horace. Uncle Horace was clever, but he wasn’t—Well, not quite in the sense that Mr. Knox was, anyway.
Meanwhile, Uncle Horace, fortunately all unconscious of these reflections, was stepping delicately over the lawn in highly polished shoes. Tom wondered if his shoes were ever not highly polished, if he ever did not look as if he were dressed for an afternoon party. ‘How many suits have you, Uncle Horace?’ he asked innocently.
‘Suits!—suits!—what do you mean by suits!’
Tom took Uncle Horace ‘s arm, for somehow he felt he had been stupid about him, and that his bark was worse than his bite. ‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘But you must have a lot. I mean your trousers never have baggy knees and your waistcoats never go into wrinkles and—’
‘I try to keep myself decent, if that’s what you’re getting at,’ Uncle Horace replied grumpily.
‘Yes, but other people try. I try myself. This suit was new about a fortnight ago, and look at it now.’
Uncle Horace looked. ‘You ought to keep your trousers in a press,’ he said shortly. ‘I expect you don’t even bother to fold them… . But it’s not that I want to talk to you about, and you know it.’
‘I’m quite willing to talk about anything, Uncle Horace; only I’d rather talk about something that—that won’t make us angry.’ Uncle Horace glared at this peculiar nephew, who was clinging to his arm (in itself a novel experience) and whose odd, freckled face was turned up to him with bright, singularly pleasant eyes. ‘You know, you’re either a most accomplished young Jesuit or else—’