Young Tom

by Forrest Reid

  The visitor Tom was expecting would arrive, he was sure, long before Mother’s friends; and of course it might be only Max, in which case Tom would immediately come out into the open. On the other hand, it was far more likely to be Mr. Sabine. Max was bound to know—for, if he hadn’t known before, James-Arthur would certainly have told him—that the squirrel he had murdered was Tom’s pet; and he would guess from this at least part of the truth, and tell the rest of his family—particularly his father. Well—let him! Tom didn’t care. Only he wished that whatever was going to happen would happen soon. . . .

  Very likely Miss Sabine was one of the visitors Mother had invited to her tea-party, but she would say nothing; at any rate not till she got Mother alone. For that matter, Miss Sabine might even be on his side—to some extent at least—certainly it wouldn’t be for love of Max if she wasn’t. Mother might too—he wasn’t sure—but Daddy he felt certain wouldn’t. . . .

  Roger was very quiet, evidently perfectly content to sit like this, with Tom’s arm round him, as they had sat so often before. Roger had beautiful brown eyes, very loving and trustful. Roger was thinking mysterious doggy thoughts, and he sat bolt upright, in which position his head was exactly on a level with Tom’s own. . . .

  They had been waiting now for nearly an hour, he supposed—which was strange surely, since Mr. Sabine’s object, if he were coming, would be to catch Daddy before he went out. It began to look as if after all nobody were coming, and cautiously Tom ventured forth from his hiding-place, and stood thinking. Perhaps he ought to take just one peep down the road before going over to Denny’s to consult with James-Arthur. But at the very moment of reaching this decision he saw the tall dark figure of Mr. Sabine at the gate, and for an instant they stood thus, face to face, not more than ten yards apart.

  Mr. Sabine’s hand was on the latch, but before he had spoken a word Tom turned tail and fled back into the shrubbery, and from the shrubbery down into the glen. It was hardly the behaviour of a hero, nor was it calculated to placate Mr. Sabine, whose voice could be heard in the distance calling after him. Tom, however, was already scrambling down the steep bank of the glen and had no intention of obeying the summons. What he had anticipated had happened, and oddly enough in a way he felt glad, for he knew that everything would now come out, so that when he returned to the house he would at least know what to expect. . . .

  He clambered out of the glen and pursued his course straight across country. He had no idea where James-Arthur was or what he would be doing, but leaving the matter to Roger, very soon he found him digging potatoes in a field, and luckily he was alone.

  Tom began at once, and James-Arthur, the sun streaming down on his flaxen head and open blue shirt and bare arms, stood motionless, leaning on his fork, while the story was poured out. As it proceeded, Tom from time to time glanced at him anxiously, but James-Arthur kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and it was impossible while he did so to guess what was passing in his mind. He did not speak once until Tom reached the point where he had thrown the gun into the river, and then he only said: “It’s a pity you done that, Master Tom.”

  Tom stopped abruptly. “Why? Why is it a pity? I’m very glad I did. It’s what he deserved.”

  “It is,” returned James-Arthur laconically.

  “Then why is it a pity? I don’t see any pity about it.”

  James-Arthur spat on his hands, which were broad and powerful, and plunged his fork energetically into the ground. But it was a solitary plunge; he left it there; and proceeded to wipe his hands on his dirty corduroys. “It’ll maybe get you into bad trouble if they find out,” he answered.

  “They’ve found out already,” Tom told him. “Mr. Sabine was going up to the house when I left.”

  James-Arthur scratched his head in silence, and Tom immediately said: “Don’t; your hands are all earthy.” But this was involuntary, and because James-Arthur’s hair was exactly the colour of very ripe oats, and looked as if it would show the slightest mark: next moment he returned to the matter he had come about. “Did you tell Max it was my squirrel?” he asked.

  “I did, an’ I told him how much you valued it, an’ what I thought of him. But sure he had it destroyed before ever I come up. . . . It was the shot that brought me.”

  “What ought I to do now?”

  James-Arthur scratched his head again, till, remembering Tom’s expostulation, he smiled sheepishly. The little boy’s admiration had always puzzled and amused him, though it pleased him too. “You wouldn’t go back—would you?” he suggested after a pause.

  Tom was surprised. “Back where?”

  “Back to your own house. . . . I mean before Mr. Sabine’s gone. . . . It’s just so they wouldn’t think you might be hiding.”

  Since hiding was precisely what he was doing, Tom couldn’t quite grasp the point of this remark. “You mean they’ll think—Mr. Sabine will think—I’m frightened of him?”

  “Aye,” said James-Arthur slowly: “if he seen you, it’d maybe look like that.”

  Tom hung his head and began to kick at a lump of earth. “Of course he saw me,” he muttered, but said nothing further till he felt James-Arthur’s arm slipping round his shoulder in the old way. This, for some mysterious reason, had the alarming effect of making him want to cry, and also, in return, to put his arms round James-Arthur; but fortunately he was able to quash both impulses, and presently to ask in his normal voice: “What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s only natural you’d be a bit scared,” James-Arthur thought. “I wasn’t meaning that. I was only meaning—if so be you could keep from showing it too much—to oul’ Sabine anyways.”

  “I’m not scared of him,” Tom answered. “It’s not that. It’s——”

  “What is it, Master Tom?”

  “It’s because they’ll want me to tell him I’m sorry—Daddy will—and I’m not going to. I hate Max and I’d kill him if I could.”

  James-Arthur shook his head reprovingly. “Now, now, that’s foolish talk, for you wouldn’t do no such thing—because you’re not that sort, an’ never will be. If you were, you wouldn’t be sorrowing over a dead squirrel at this moment.”

  “I’d hurt him anyway,” Tom said; “and badly too, so that he’d remember it for a long time. You don’t believe me, because you think I’m soft.”

  “No,” James-Arthur replied. “I think you’re tough enough in plenty of ways—other ways—a heap tougher than young Sabine I dare say. But I think you’re soft-hearted, because I’ve seen it.”

  “I’m not,” Tom denied.

  James-Arthur smiled. “I don’t mean anything you wouldn’t like,” he said. “But anyways it wouldn’t hurt you—would it?—just to say you’re sorry. Whether you are or not, it’s only two words, an’ it might make a lot of difference—though I suppose the oul’ lad’ll be lookin’ a new gun.”

  Strangely enough, until James-Arthur mentioned it, this thought had never entered Tom’s head; but now he instantly saw that the first thing Daddy would do on learning the truth would be to offer to replace the gun. It was sickening, hateful, unfair. Max had done a rotten, cruel thing, and in return he would get a new gun and carry on just as before; while Edward, who had never harmed anybody or anything, would never again be able to peep down from the branches of his oak-tree, to gather and stow away his winter stores, to come down at the sound of his name, and sit on Tom’s shoulder and be stroked and petted. . . .

  When he raised his head it was to find James-Arthur looking at him very kindly. “Now don’t you be taking on so, Master Tom. I wish I’d hit that young scut a clout on the head myself, an’ if you were a bit nearer his match I’d tell you to leather into him an’ break his jaw. But the way it is, it’d be no good.”

  Tom said nothing, and James-Arthur went on consolingly. “Troubles happen, but in the latter end they pass. So if they ask you to, just you say you’re sorry, an’ in a day or two it’ll all be forgotten.”

  Then Tom at last found words. “I won’t,�
� he replied, his mouth closing obstinately. “They can keep on and on, and punish me in any way they like, but I’ll never tell either Mr. Sabine or Max that I’m sorry, and I’ll never speak to Max again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WHEN he got home William was cutting the grass on the croquet-lawn—probably on purpose, so that he might pounce on him at once. “The master’s been lookin’ for you all roads,” he called out sourly. “Ever since Mr. Sabine come.”

  Tom halted irresolutely. “Is Mr. Sabine still here?” he said.

  “He is not then; they give you up. An’ if you ask me, he wasn’t lookin’ too pleased eether when he left—whatever you may have bin doin’ to the gentleman.”

  Without replying to this insinuation, Tom thrust his hands into his pockets and walked on, assuming an air of nonchalance he was far from feeling. Through the open drawing-room windows floated the sound of mingled feminine voices, telling him that Mother’s tea-party was still in full swing.

  He went straight to the study, but outside the door paused for nearly a minute before opening it. Daddy was writing at the big leather-covered table near the window, and at the sound of Tom’s entrance he glanced up; then, seeing who it was, sighed and laid down his pen. To Tom’s surprise he did not look angry—merely rather bored at the interruption, and at the same time half amused.

  “Won’t you sit down?” he asked politely, as his son lingered uneasily by the door; and Tom, uncertain what to make of this most Daddyish reception, sat down in the nearest chair.

  Daddy removed his glasses and inspected him for a moment or two without speaking. This accomplished, he pushed back his chair, sighed again, stretched his legs, and said in the resigned accents of one embarking on a tedious duty: “I presume you already know that I’ve had the pleasure of a visit from Mr. Sabine—and why. He mentioned your encounter, and also that at sight of him you ran away. . . . I, unfortunately, was not in a position to do so.”

  The last words may or may not have been intended to reach Tom, whose sharp ears nevertheless caught them. It certainly was a most unexpected beginning, and a little more hopefully he began to wonder what really could have happened. Daddy still did not enlighten him. “That was a very ill-mannered thing to do,” he went on, “and I must add, not at all like you. Yet when I ventured to say so to Mr. Sabine, he not only assured me that you had seen him, but that he called after you several times, and you took no notice. Naturally he arrived here in a somewhat heated mood—which I hope may account for the suspicions he expressed—and still clings to, I’m afraid.”

  “Did he tell you Max had shot my squirrel?” Tom asked in a low voice. “He shot Edward.”

  Something woebegone in his attitude must have struck Daddy, for he dropped his semi-ironical tone and answered quickly and kindly; “Yes, he told me so; but that Max had no idea the squirrel was a pet of yours when he shot it—which I’m sure is true.”

  “I don’t believe it’s true,” Tom burst out. “He knew he was tame anyhow, because he shot him from quite close. He’s always shooting things, and Mr. Sabine allows him to.”

  Daddy waited a moment before going on. “You see, Tom, it’s like this: very few people quite share your feelings about animals. It may be unfortunate, but it is inevitable, because we are all born with a limited number of sympathies only, and yours, in that direction, happen to be unusually strong. I did my best to explain to Mr. Sabine how you felt about such things, but it would have been very much better if you had been there yourself, instead of taking to your heels as if you had done something you were ashamed of.”

  Tom gazed at him half incredulously, for there was a note in his voice, as he uttered this very mild reproof, far more friendly than angry.

  “You think I did right?” he stammered.

  “I don’t think you did right to run away—which never helps anything—but I certainly think you had a much more legitimate grievance than Mr. Sabine, and I told him so.”

  Tom drew a deep sigh and murmured, “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “So that when you return the gun, or tell Max where you hid it, I imagine the apologies will be on the other side. In fact, taking everything into consideration, I think it will be sufficient if we send it back by William—unless you actually wish to have an interview with our reverend friend.”

  Tom’s face fell. In one second all his new-born confidence came toppling to the ground, and he saw that if Daddy had taken his part it was due to a complete misunderstanding. He believed Tom had taken the gun, but no more than that, as indeed might have been guessed from his remarks about Mr. Sabine’s suspicions. “I can’t return it,” he whispered.

  It was strange, but Daddy still seemed not to comprehend. He merely looked puzzled. “Why?—why can’t you return it? I don’t suppose you’ve hidden it in such an inaccessible place that you can’t lay your hands on it.”

  “I threw it in the river,” Tom said; and those few words sufficed to change everything.

  It was not that even now Daddy looked angry; but what was worse, he looked profoundly disappointed.

  “So Mr. Sabine was right after all!”

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  There followed a silence, which seemed to last for hours before Daddy spoke again. “That, I’m afraid, alters the position. Don’t you think it was a rather spiteful revenge to take?”

  Tom did not answer, and Daddy went on: “Stupid too—since you must have known I should have to replace the gun?”

  “I didn’t,” Tom broke in eagerly. “I mean, I didn’t think of that till James-Arthur told me you would.”

  “And what else did James-Arthur tell you? What does he think of the whole performance, for I suppose you talked it over?”

  Tom’s eagerness died. “I think he—— I think he thinks the same as you.”

  “Did he say so?”

  “No.”

  Daddy sat there, as if he were turning over this last response in his mind, though Tom had not intended it to convey more than a bare negation. “If,” he began at last, and speaking less sternly—“if Max had shot the squirrel knowing it was yours, I shouldn’t blame you perhaps—at all events not so much. But he didn’t; he did it in ignorance; which makes all the difference. . . . Don’t imagine I approve of what he did: on the contrary, I think he must be an unpleasant boy; but that is not the point, nor does it justify your action. At any rate, the fact remains that I parted with his father on far from cordial terms; with the result that now I shall have to take you over to the Rectory and we shall both have to apologize.”

  Tom had been staring at the carpet, but when Daddy paused he once more looked up. For a moment, though his lips moved, no words came. Then; “I won’t,” he brought out in a low but extremely stubborn voice. “I’ll say I’m sorry to you—about having to buy a new gun—but I won’t say it to either Mr. Sabine or Max.”

  It was his nervousness, no doubt, that made it sound so openly defiant. None the less, it had that sound, and Daddy, who hitherto had been leaning back in his chair carelessly twiddling an ivory paper-knife, suddenly sat up straight, and Tom saw that now at all events he was genuinely angry. “I can’t take you over there this evening,” he said coldly, “because it is Wednesday, and Mr. Sabine will be conducting the church service, and possibly have other business to see to afterwards; but I shall take you over to-morrow morning.”

  “I won’t go,” Tom repeated.

  “You certainly will,” Daddy answered. “And in the meantime you had better go to your room, and remain there till you have learned to speak more respectfully.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  TOM left him without a word.

  In his own room he sat down on the side of the bed to think things over. The situation was at any rate definite and clear, and in one respect he was perhaps glad to be condemned to solitary confinement, since somehow it made it easier for him to keep to his resolve. Possibly, therefore, it would have been more satisfactory still had he been followed and locked in, though
of course it was none the less imprisonment because this formality had been neglected.

  His broodings were interrupted by the sound of voices, and he went to the window to watch Mother’s departing guests. A little later he heard Mother herself coming upstairs, and turned round expectantly, but she passed his door without even pausing, and went on into her own room. Did she not know, then, what had happened? Or had Daddy told her he was to be left to himself till he showed signs of penitence, and promised to do what he was told? Very likely nobody would be allowed to come near him—except perhaps to bring him food, for even Daddy would hardly try to starve him into compliance. If he did, it wouldn’t succeed; and he pictured himself fainting with hunger yet still defiant. . . .

  He stood listening, for Mother was moving about in her room, getting ready for dinner. He could have gone to her there, and it was not so much obedience to Daddy’s orders as an odd kind of pride that prevented him. Presently the gong sounded and he heard her again passing his door, this time going downstairs.

  Well, he could be equally determined, and somebody must come soon unless they were going to starve him—either Phemie or Mary—he hoped Phemie.

  This hope at all events was realized, indeed more than realized, for shortly afterwards Phemie came in beaming, and with an air of being so completely on his side that for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. She carried a tray, too, on which was not only an ordinary dinner, but what looked very like a special treat in the shape of macaroons, of which, as she well knew, he was particularly fond. Even in the midst of his troubles he could not help feeling gloomily tickled, for he strongly suspected the macaroons to be spoils pillaged from Mother’s tea-party. This surmise, as he learned later, was correct. Connecting his disgrace with Mr. Sabine’s visit, Phemie had formed her own view of the situation, and had expressed it openly and with vigour. “Shutting up the poor lamb all alone there!—just because of old Nosey Sabine! Him and his Orange sash, and a face would turn the milk inside a cow! I never could abide him, and I wonder the Master would be heeding his complaints—as like as not a pack of lies invented by his own brat!”