by Forrest Reid
There was a perceptible pause: then various sounds arose from the other side of the door, though none of them verbal. Sounds of a pipe being knocked out, of a throat being cleared, of a chair being pushed back over a tiled floor—followed by a sound of shuffling footsteps accompanied by the sharp tapping of a stick. An old man, bent, white-bearded, with red twitching eyelids, emerged through the dim aperture.
‘I’m a’wantin’—who wants me?’ he asked querulously, in a thin cracked voice.
‘This young gentleman is looking for a Mr. Collet. Is there any Collet lives in Coombe Bridge?’
‘Collet?’ The old man peered at Stephen. ‘Collet, did you say?’
‘Yes,’ Stephen answered.
‘An’ what might a’ put the name of Collet into your head, young gentleman?’ The old man drew closer. ‘There s been no Collets in Coombe Bridge—not since the Reverend Henry Collet died, and that must be nigh and next forty years ago. No, there’s no Collets left except what’s dust and bones in the graveyard. Who might you be, if you’ll pardon the liberty?’
‘My name is Collet: I’m Stephen Collet.’
The old man continued to blink his eyelids rapidly, while he stood pondering. He was a rather dirty and far from pleasant old man. It was not a pleasant shop either, Tom thought. There was something wrong with it—something decidedly wrong.
‘That would be the name of the second son,’ the old man said cautiously. ‘I mind hearing about him, but both the sons had left home before ever I came to this place. The shop belonged then to my uncle. I was brought up to the farming. I was on the land till I was nigh on thirty years of age, and—’
‘Yes, Pa; but the young gentleman wants to know about Mr. Collet.’
‘Well, amn’t I tellin’ him,’ the old man snapped with an unexpected waspishness. ‘I was well acquainted with the Reverend Collet: not that I was one of his denomination. But I had converse with him when he would be coming into the shop maybe. And he would mention his sons. They had both left home, and Henry, that was called by him and was the eldest, was doing well; but the young one was a rover and they could get no tidings of him. He had the true Collet blood in him, that one, for they were mostly a wild lot—not fearing God or man. You wouldn’t be his boy, would you?’
‘No.’
The old man looked down and began to mutter incantations into his beard—or so it seemed to Tom. Then once more he took a long look at Stephen and broke, rather startlingly, into a laugh. ‘The Reverend Henry Collet is buried deep in the churchyard of his own church,’ he said with a glee that was somehow shocking. ‘And the last time I seen his grave there was a hare sitting up on it with its ears cocked. Not that I hold with them superstitions—that comes from the devil—or so they say.’
‘Pa!’
‘Is there anybody else who knew him?’ Tom interrupted, for he wanted to get out of this shop as quickly as possible.
‘Are you a Collet too?’ the old man said softly.
‘Yes—or at least my mother was.’
‘Ay—ay—the family’s comin’ back it would seem… . There was something strange about them all—even about the Reverend Henry… . The churchyard is no place for hares. It looked at me the way the little gentleman might be looking now, and it never budged though I threatened it with my stick. It was after that the rheumatism took me bad and I was lyin’ for three weeks.’
‘Don’t you be heeding him, sir,’ the woman said in an undertone. Then more loudly, ‘Pa, the young gentleman asked you a question. Can’t you tell him if there’s anybody still living here might have known Mr. Collet?’
The old man without turning his head slid his eyes round at her. For a moment they expressed an astonishing malevolence: then he began again to mutter into his beard. ‘No, there’s no one would have known him—no one at all—no one unless it might be Miss Charlemont.’
Stephen turned to the woman. ‘What Miss Charlemont is that?’ he asked.
The woman’s eyes were strangely still—stupid—stupid and slightly glazed. ‘It’s the lady living in the red house on the hill he’d be meaning—Miss Alice Charlemont.’
‘Has she lived there long?’
‘Ay, she’s well up in years. Not what you’d call ancient, like Pa there, but she’d be turned sixty.’
‘Let’s go,’ whispered Tom, plucking Stephen by the sleeve, for Stephen stood motionless, plunged in meditation.
‘Go straight through the square,’ said the woman, for the first time showing signs of animation, ‘and take the turn on your right after you pass the church. It’s not above half a mile. Keep on till you get to the top of the hill and you’ll see the house from the road. You can’t miss it, for it’s the only house there.’
The old man again was peering at Stephen, with an extraordinary mixture of slyness and suspicion. And again he broke into a chuckle; after which he turned abruptly and hobbled back to where he had come from.
‘You needn’t be payin’ any attention to him,’ said the woman. ‘Sometimes he’s like that. You’d never know beforehand whether he was goin’ to be sensible or not.’
Tom thanked her and gave Stephen another tug, this time effectively.
‘I don’t like those people,’ he said, when they were out in the sunshine again. ‘The old man especially.’
‘He’s doting,’ Stephen murmured absently.
‘He may be doting, but I don’t like him: I think he has horrible things in his mind.’
Stephen shook off his reverie. He smiled faintly.
‘And I think they’ve begun to get out,’ Tom went on. ‘That shop was awfully queer.’
‘I didn’t notice anything. Except that it didn’t look very prosperous.’
‘Something is going to happen there,’ Tom persisted. ‘I knew the minute I went in. And he hates his daughter—or his daughter-in-law.’
‘Does he? I wasn’t much interested in either of them. The woman knows nothing and the old man is cracked… . I was thinking of Miss Charlemont.’
‘Well, I hope she won’t be like them. That is, if we are going to see her.’
‘Don’t you want to go?’
‘I want to do whatever you want. Do you know Miss Charlemont? Was she here—before?’
‘How can I tell? The woman said she must be sixty. The Charlemont girl I knew—Alice Charlemont—was fourteen.’
Tom hesitated. ‘Would you rather not go?’
‘Oh, I’m going, but there’s no need for you to come.’
‘Did you know her well—your Alice Charlemont, I mean?’
‘Yes. She used to lend me her pony.’
‘Did you like her?’
‘Yes—well enough.’
‘I don’t think you like many people.’
‘I like them if they’re my sort.’
‘I’m not very much your sort.’
‘Not in some ways, but , Oh, well, it’s hard to explain. There are different kinds of liking. I don’t think I’d ever want to be with one person all the time, or to live in one place all the time, or to live one kind of life all the time. You’re different, I know. You’d be quite content, wouldn’t you, to settle down at the Manor with Uncle Stephen for the rest of your life? But you ought to remember Uncle Stephen had returned from his adventures. It wasn’t that he’d never had any. According to you, he’d had plenty.’
‘Uncle Stephen wanted me to stay at home.’
‘Yes, he would—naturally. He wanted you, and of course if you didn’t stay at home he couldn’t have you. He was an old rascal, you know.’
‘He wasn’t.’
‘And he was jolly lucky to find you. You suited him as well as if he’d helped God to make you. How many boys, do you think, would have wanted to read Greek with him, to play chess with him, to live in that old home with him? About one in ten thousand. I’d have been fed up with it in two days.’
‘I don’t see how that can be,’ said Tom. Nevertheless, his brow puckered as he thought it over, for it did actual
ly seem to be true.
‘That is the house,’ said Stephen, catching him by the arm. ‘There, through the trees.’
Tom looked up in time to see it, but almost immediately it was hidden by a turn in the road.
Straight in front of them were two tall iron gates, and beyond these was an avenue, which wound about corkscrew fashion, either with the design of making the grounds appear more extensive than they really were, or of minimizing the steepness of the approach. ‘If she’s at home,’ said Stephen, ‘she can’t very well not feed us, and that’s what we need most at present.’
The house, built on the brow of a hill, was square and solid and completely devoid of ornament. It was in fact the very house Tom again and again, in childhood, had drawn on paper—with its rows of windows all exactly the same, its door in the middle, and its chimneys, from one of which the conventional trail of smoke was rising. Not a leaf was allowed to touch the precious bricks, and the steps were so spotlessly white that it looked as if visitors must use the back-door. Tom wiped his feet on the grass, but Stephen was less particular. He rang the bell, which responded with an alarming exuberance. He must have given it a frightful tug!
Miss Charlemont was at home, they learned, but no invitation to come in followed the announcement. They were left standing in the porch while a message was carried to her. Tom stooped down to stroke a somnolent tabby basking in the sun.
Suddenly the door opened wide. ‘Miss Charlemont will see you if you will kindly step this way: she’ll be down in a few minutes.’
They were ushered into a bright morning-room, the furniture of which was covered in gaily-flowered chintzes. The paper was gay also, a rose-coloured pattern on a white ground, and all the woodwork was white. The sun shone in through two windows, and there were flowers in bowls and vases… . Rooms! Tom fancied he was rather a specialist in them, and this one certainly was pleasant: therefore so must be Miss Charlemont. The servant retired and came back with a tray on which were wine-glasses and a decanter and a blue china biscuit box. ‘Miss Charlemont hopes you will take a glass of wine and a biscuit while you are waiting,’ she said, and then left them alone.
‘Very decent of her, I must say,’ murmured Stephen, filling the glasses and taking a sip.
Tom watched him with pellucid, oddly childish eyes. ‘What kind of wine is it?’ he asked, also sipping. ‘Port?’
‘Port—no: it’s sherry.’ Stephen wavered. ‘At least I think so. You don’t drink port before meals. Anyway, it’s quite good. Let’s get drunk before she comes down.’ He hastily emptied his glass and refilled it.
‘Don’t be piggy,’ said Tom.
‘Why not? I’ve never been really squiffy except once—last Christmas—staying with a chap called Rockmore. Besides, I expect you’ll like me better when I’m tight.’
Tom’s face flamed. ‘I don’t like you now, anyway,’ he said. ‘You’d think you were being beastly on purpose.’
‘So I am. This visit is having the wrong effect.’
Tom had no time to say more, for just then the door opened, and an elderly lady with smooth grey hair, small, and very alert and active, entered. There was something birdlike about her—in her brightness, her quick movements. She smiled at them both, turning from one to the other. ‘Which of you is Stephen Collet? No; don’t tell me.’ She advanced swiftly to Stephen and kissed him. ‘That question at least was unnecessary.’
Tom from the beginning felt out of it. His presence might not actually be unwelcome, but it certainly was superfluous. Miss Charlemont had eyes only for Stephen.
‘It’s wonderful!’ she kept on saying. ‘It’s not a mere family resemblance: you might be the very Stephen Collet I used to know. He was a friend of mine; a dear dear friend, though we were only children. That will tell you how long ago it was… . And you say your name is Stephen too!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Oh, don’t be so formal, child! You must call me Aunt Alice. And you too’—she suddenly remembered Tom-I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name, dear.’
‘That’s cousin Tom—Tom Barber,’ said Stephen. ‘His mother was Henry Collet’s daughter.’
Yes, yes. I’m afraid I don’t remember Henry very well. He was older than Stephen, and I scarcely ever saw him. But Stephen and I were playmates—when he was home for his holidays.’ She paused, her eyes rejoicing in the boy who stood there smiling at her. ‘I don’t think I ever in my life got such a surprise as when Annie brought me your name… . And, you know, I haven’t got you yet,’ she went on—‘where you come in… . But I shan’t bother you now. Lunch is ready; you must explain it all to me afterwards.’
Miss Charlemont led the way to the dining-room. She struck Tom as being a somewhat scatter-brained person, though extremely kind. ‘Isn’t it fortunate there is lunch,’ she babbled on happily. ‘Very often I have nothing but an egg and a cup of tea myself, but to-day by some special providence there is a roast fowl, and I’m sure you’re both starving.’
They sat down at the table, and Tom, with a shade of uneasiness, watched Stephen drinking another glass of wine—this time burgundy—which had been poured out for him. Moreover, there was a glint of recklessness in his eyes Tom did not like at all. So he signalled a warning across the table while Miss Charlemont was giving an order to the maid, though he would have preferred to get up and remove the decanter which had been placed at Stephen’s elbow, and from which he now proceeded to help himself once more.
When the maid had left the room Miss Charlemont returned to personal matters. ‘You must give me a complete account of yourselves,’ she said; but she addressed Stephen, and it was Stephen she meant. ‘I’ve lost all sight of your family for I don’t know how long, and one hears nothing in an out-of-the-way spot like this. Of course, to begin with, I suppose you must be Henry Collet’s son, or grandson—and that would make you my Stephen Collet’s nephew, or grand-nephew.’
‘You’ve got it all wrong, Aunt Alice,’ Stephen replied gaily. ‘Henry Collet hadn’t a son. He had only a daughter, and it is Tom there who is his grandson. Don’t you really know who I am? I thought you were only pretending, but now I don’t think I’ll tell you. I’ll give you three guesses.’
Miss Charlemont laid down her knife and fork. Once more she subjected Stephen to a close scrutiny: then she nodded her head two or three times and looked extremely wise. Stephen had begun to laugh, and his young eyes met her old eyes boldly. ‘If I didn’t think you were making fun of me,’ said Miss Charlemont, ‘and if I hadn’t always been told that Stephen Collet was a bachelor—’ She broke off, and Tom groaned inwardly. ‘Now we’ll get all the natural son business!’ he said to himself; and however lightly Mr. Knox and Uncle Horace might regard such matters, he was sure Miss Charlemont was unaccustomed to them.
‘Who told you, Aunt Alice?’ Stephen questioned playfully.
‘Never mind who told me,’ Miss Charlemont replied. ‘Well—everybody:—’ she went on rather vaguely. ‘Everybody who ever mentioned him.’ But Tom could see she was becoming more and more uncertain. ‘You don’t mean you are his son!’ she exclaimed at last. She shook a reproachful finger at him. ‘That wasn’t fair of you. I think you might have told me at once instead of letting me make a goose of myself.’
‘But I really thought you knew,’ Stephen protested, laughing. ‘Particularly when you recognized me straight off like that. And then—well, I was sure you would know who I was, just because I had come specially to see you. Of course, Tom came too, but that was different: he happened to be with me.’
Miss Charlemont sat silent a moment, and a faint flush came into her cheeks. ‘So your father sent you!’ Her eyes had grown very soft, and she sighed, but it was not from sadness. ‘Well, dear, that was extremely nice of him, for I thought he wouldn’t even have remembered there was such a person after all these years. But why did he wait so long? Why have I never heard?’
‘Is it long since you heard of him, Aunt Alice?’
‘Yes, dear.
And the last I heard was that he was living all alone—’
‘But don’t you see that that explains it?’ cried Stephen triumphantly. ‘He only married shortly before I was born … I mean, about a year before,’ he added, with a quick glance at Tom. ‘And it was abroad and nobody in this country knew anything about it. He has hardly any friends over here. In fact, you might say he has none—except you. Shall I tell you the whole story, Aunt Alice? I mean all about his marriage, and how it happened. Would you like me to?’
Yes, dear, of course… And perhaps it is my own fault that I know so little. He went away when he was a boy—no older than you are now—and he never wrote. Afterwards, when I heard he had come back to this country, I thought of writing. I debated the idea with myself many times, but it always ended by my deciding against it. You see, I thought that if he had wished to renew our friendship he would have done so himself, and—and that it wasn’t my place to remind him of what perhaps he had no desire to recall. I wish now I hadn’t been so stiff and stupid, for I won’t deny that his sending you to visit me like this has touched me very much.’
Tom suddenly felt sorry for her, and at the same time indignant. It was as if Stephen had invented this graceful action of Uncle Stephen’s for no other purpose than to lead Miss Charlemont on to make herself absurd.
Meanwhile the maid had come back into the room, and while she remained there Miss Charlemont spoke of the weather and apologized for having nothing more to offer them than dessert—if she had only known they were coming she would have had a really nice lunch for them. But the moment they were alone again she turned eagerly to Stephen. ‘I think, dear, I interrupted you. You were about to tell me something.’
‘Yes,’ said Stephen, sipping his wine, while his gaze rested dreamily on a picture above Tom’s head. ‘It was about father’s marriage. But I don’t want to bore you.’
‘You won’t bore me,’ Miss Charlemont assured him.
‘At any rate I’ll try not to,’ said Stephen, suddenly looking straight into Tom’s eyes. ‘You see,’ he went on, after this ominous assurance, ‘it was all most unusual. In a way, you might call it romantic.’