by Forrest Reid
From these domestic felicities he was summoned by Granny to come to the table and have tea. At home there would have been a reminder to go and wash his hands first, and Granny received due credit for being sensible and unfussy. She got yet a further good mark for having remembered that he was specially fond of potted shrimps and hot freshly-baked shortbread Dinah, though unused to any but kitchen meals, also was comforted with a few shrimps, and a saucer of milk—a good deal of which she splashed on to the carpet.
“Granny, have you got Uncle Stephen’s book?”
Granny, who had been beaming benevolently at nothing in particular—merely in a sort of general amiability—shook her head. She seemed not even to have grasped the importance of the question, for she went on pressing food upon him as if he were never to expect another meal.
“But Granny, you must have. Grandpapa was Uncle Stephen’s brother, you know.”
Granny, continuing to beam, again shook her head.
“Do you mean to say he wasn’t his brother!” Tom cried, both incredulous and indignant.
At this Granny pulled herself together. “No, dear, of course he was his brother; but your Uncle Stephen was ten years younger than Grandpapa, and for a long time lived abroad. Then, when he came back to this country, he shut himself up at Kilbarron, where he has lived ever since. Grandpapa did write once, asking him to pay us a visit, but we never even got a reply—so naturally that ended the matter.”
“Why don’t you write, Granny?”
Granny laughed. “Perhaps I shall. And tell him he’s got a nephew who’s most anxious to meet him.”
Tom pondered a moment. “Will you write to-night, Granny?”
But Granny had either exhausted or been exhausted by the subject. “Is this your mother?” she asked, “or is it Doctor Macrory? It must be either one or the other.”
“It was Doctor Macrory;” Tom admitted, “but Mother told me about him too. She thinks I take after him.”
Granny seemed amused. “Since she never set eyes on him in her life, that at least does credit to her powers of imagination; but I should have thought Doctor Macrory would have had more sense.”
Tom was disappointed, though at the same time not convinced. After all, he had much more faith in Mother’s judgement than in Granny’s, while Doctor Macrory was by far the most sensible person he had ever met. For a minute or two he remained silent, and then he asked; “Would you mind if I went all over the house, Granny?”
Granny, if she appeared to be slightly puzzled by this abrupt digression, at least had no objections. “Of course, dear, you can go over the house. Why not?”
But the very promptness of her agreement made Tom doubt whether she had understood what he meant. “I mean now,” he explained. “I mean the locked-up rooms in the east wing. I’ve never been up there except once, when there was a spring-cleaning.”
At this a sudden light dawned, and Granny looked slightly annoyed. “If you’re still thinking of that book,” she declared, “I know it isn’t there. Why are you so unbelieving? There are no books there except a lot of rubbish—old school-books and magazines, and perhaps a few yellow-backs.”
“Yes, Granny; but do you mind if I go up?”
“Whether I mind or not,” Granny told him, “I think you’re an extremely persistent little boy, and I hoped you had come to see me.”
Tom sighed. “So I have, Granny. . . . I’ll be seeing you all this evening, and to-morrow, and part of Monday. We can play backgammon after dinner—or even draughts.”
The “even”, though entirely unpremeditated, was not lost upon Granny, who could not help recollecting that draughts had figured not infrequently as an entertainment on similar occasions in the past. He was certainly a very odd little boy, but she was much too old and too fond of him to be offended for more than a moment. “Run along,” she said, “since you’re so bent on it. . . . Tell Rose to give you the key of the door at the top of the stairs: all the other doors are unlocked.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
TOM did as she told him, though he would have felt more comfortable if she hadn’t made those remarks about his persistence. After all, Granny did forget things; he had often heard her say she would be forgetting her own name next; and simply because he wished to make quite sure didn’t mean that he was unbelieving. Very likely she hadn’t been up in the empty rooms for ages, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have been looking for Uncle Stephen’s book. In fact she didn’t seem to take the least interest in either Uncle Stephen or his book. That it wasn’t downstairs, Tom himself was certain, for there were only two bookcases downstairs and he had gone over their contents heaps of times. Nor had it taken long: Tramore wasn’t a booky house: Daddy had ten times as many. . . .
The staircase rose from the hall, first in a single broad flight with very wide shallow treads, and then branching to right and left in two narrower flights terminating in and connected by a railed gallery. The closed rooms were in the east wing—the old nursery quarters, Granny said—and the locked door through which you reached them was at one end of this gallery. It was a queer arrangement, Tom thought, but there were unnecessary doors all over Granny’s house, just as if everybody had wanted to live as separately as they could from everybody else; and of course, if it were kept open, you mightn’t notice the door. He opened it now, and after a moment’s hesitation shut it behind him. It was lighter here than it had been in the hall or on the stairs, because the doors of all the rooms were wide open and their windows unblinded. Not that there were really many rooms—only four, and one of them was a bathroom. It was in the biggest—perhaps the old nursery—that he found the books, and a single glance told him that Granny had been right about them. They were arranged on a couple of hanging shelves and were just such a worn-out, tattered collection as you might find in the fourpenny box outside any second-hand bookseller’s. She had even overrated them, for there were only three yellow-backs, the rest were railway-guides, hymn-books, spelling-books, geographies and grammars, with some bound volumes of magazines. Granny certainly would be able to say, “I told you so,” or “Perhaps you’ll believe me next time.” At least that was what most people would have said.
The inference, indeed, was plain—Uncle Stephen hadn’t given Grandpapa his book, and Grandpapa hadn’t bought it. For that matter, nobody seemed to have bought it—not even Doctor Macrory—and Tom felt more in sympathy with Uncle Stephen than ever.
He went over to the window and looked out. From up here you got a much better view than from the rooms downstairs, and he opened the window and leaned over the sill. Beyond the lawn, the ground took a slight dip downward, and then rose again to the skyline. It would be a splendid place for animals, he decided. You could have all kinds of animals here, and Granny hadn’t even a dog—nobody but Dinah and her two kittens. He began to make plans of what he would do if he were Granny. First, he would build a very high wall all round, so that there could be really wild animals, like those they have in zoos. Next, the dogs would have to be taught not to chase anything—which would be easy enough with Roger and Barker. He would have snakes, too, in spite of Saint Patrick. Only with so many animals to take care of he would need somebody to help him, and as Quigley would be no good he would get James-Arthur from Denny’s. . . .
Tom could not have told what it was that at this point made him suddenly look round. He had heard no sound of footsteps—consciously he had heard no sound at all—nevertheless, standing in the passage just outside the door, was a boy watching him—a boy of about his own age, or perhaps younger, dressed in a dark blue jersey and shorts. He was standing in the full sunlight, and possibly had been there for some time, though the moment Tom looked round he hastily retreated and was gone. Tom himself was so taken aback that for a minute or two he simply stared at the empty doorway without moving. Who was he? Either Cook or Rose must have sent him up; and probably it was Cook, for he knew she had nephews, though he had never seen them. It was pretty cheeky of him all the same—to steal up on
tip-toe like this, and then run away. . . . Unless he had suddenly turned shy. . . . And perhaps he hadn’t run away; perhaps he was only hiding, in a kind of game. To make sure, Tom crossed to the door and peeped out. Yes—he was there—but now he was in the doorway at the end of the passage, and as before, the moment Tom caught a glimpse of him he disappeared. . . .
It evidently was a game, yet Tom felt half annoyed as well as puzzled. “If he imagines I’m going to run after him, he’s very much mistaken,” he said to himself. “He can either go or stay as he pleases.”
Then, while he stood there, uncertain what to do next, he began to think. . . . If this had been Cook’s nephew, wouldn’t Cook herself have come up to explain, to perform some kind of introduction? Besides, he somehow didn’t look like Cook’s nephew—or at least what Tom would have expected Cook’s nephew to look like. . . . Did Granny know any boys? If she did, he had never heard of them; and anyhow, she, too, would either have come up with the visitor or have called Tom down. It certainly was very queer; the boy’s behaviour even more so. . . .
There he was again—he had come back—but this time he lingered, perhaps because Tom had not followed him. He was not in the sunlight now, yet surely there was a light, a kind of brightness, that seemed to be in the air behind him and all round him. A sudden memory was stirred in Tom’s mind. He knew neither how nor whence it had come, but it was there, and held him hushed and spellbound. That other boy—Ralph Seaford—this was where he once had lived—this was his home—Tramore. With nearly the whole length of the passage between them, Tom remained motionless—hardly startled—not really frightened at all, for the boy was smiling at him, half timidly, half doubtfully, yet as if he wanted very much to make friends. There was an interval before Tom smiled back, but in the end he did, seeing which the boy’s smile instantly deepened, and step by step he drew nearer, coming very slowly down the passage.
“I know who you are,” Tom said, hardly above his breath. “At least I think I do.”
There was no answer, and, though the boy was close beside him now, Tom somehow knew that if he stretched out his hand it would touch nothing, that he was near and yet not near, there and yet not there.
Side by side they returned to the room where the books were. No sound passed the boy’s lips, nevertheless Tom was as sure as if he had said so that he wanted to be with him, to play with him, that this was why he had come. Somehow the thought was oddly pathetic, and awoke an immediate response. Only what could they play at? If they had been at home it would have been easy enough; he could have set his railway going—which he rarely did for himself—he could have shown his yacht, or built a house with his bricks: but here there was nothing except a lot of dusty antiquated furniture and household odds and ends—boxes and trunks, either empty or packed with old clothes, old bills, old letters—for Granny seemed never to destroy anything.
Presently his glance fell on a pile of ancient Graphics on the floor by the window. These might at least be better than nothing. So lifting an armful on to the table he sat down and began to turn the leaves, pausing at the full-page pictures, while the boy leaned forward to look too, his hand seeming to rest on Tom’s shoulder although Tom could feel no pressure there.
Tom talked about the pictures, because it was easier to talk aloud. Yet he had no idea whether his companion could hear him, or simply understood him without words. The sense of communication at any rate was there—vividly there; and by and by even the feeling of strangeness was lost. The sunlight slanted across the room; and the rustle of leaves, and the gay careless music of birds, floated in through the open window. Now and then Tom glanced at the face that was so close to his, and always, when he did so, it broke into a smile—happy and strangely trusting. . . .
Time slipped by unnoticed; the shadows outside were lengthening. At last, breaking in upon them unexpectedly, came the deep and distant notes of the hall gong. It was meant for him, Tom knew, a reminder that he must get ready for dinner; and he also knew that if he neglected the summons a very cross Rose would soon appear to fetch him “I must go,” he whispered, yet with a feeling of compunction. He really did feel distressed, for the small figure beside him looked infinitely forlorn and lonely the moment he had spoken the words. But he had understood, and he stepped back at once. “I can’t help it,” Tom went on: “I’ll come again if I possibly can; though I know Granny will think it very queer and ask questions, and, and—— Goodbye.” Deliberately he averted his eyes, and without another look or word ran out of the room and along the passage and down the stairs. . . .
At dinner, Granny had an unusually quiet guest beside her. Before long she noticed it. “What are you dreaming about?” she asked, half amused, and half curious “I suppose you’ll say ‘nothing’, but you might at least tell me what you found upstairs to keep you there for two hours. I very nearly sent Rose up to see. It can’t have been the books.”
“No,” Tom answered, in a rather subdued voice. Actually he had forgotten all about the books.
“Granny——” he began presently, and stopped, leaving her to wait expectantly while he stared at the opposite wall.
Granny, however, was not unaccustomed to such pauses, and allowed him to take his own time. He did, and in the end decided it would be better not to say what he had been going to say. Instead, he told her that he had liked it upstairs, and had been looking at pictures in the Graphic. “I didn’t finish them,” he added, so that he might have an excuse for a second visit.
Unfortunately Granny, in her innocence, at once upset this stratagem by replying that she would tell Rose to bring them down to the drawing-room after dinner.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LATE on Monday afternoon, Doctor Macrory “collected” him as he had promised, and they drove home together. On the way, the doctor told him he had been unable to find the bird-call, adding that he now didn’t think it would have been of much use even if he had—was not, that is to say, the kind of thing Tom wanted. “At any rate, I consulted a friend of mine who’s a great bird man, and he said the only instruments of the sort he had ever seen were of German manufacture and purely mechanical—each one separately designed to reproduce the mating call of a different bird. There wouldn’t be much fun in that, would there? and I expect mine must be the same. What you want is something on which you can play—if not like Orpheus, at least like the shepherds in Theocritus—something more in the nature of Pan-pipes; and I imagine the nearest modern instrument to that is a mouth-organ, so I got you one. . . . It’s there,” he went on, nodding towards the shelf in front of Tom’s seat, upon which lay a small parcel wrapped up in brown paper.
Tom opened it, a little disappointed, but only momentarily, for after all he had never possessed a mouth-organ. “Thanks most awfully,” he said; and from time to time during the remainder of the drive he blew a note or two, though very softly, in case these experimental sounds should not be pleasing to the doctor.
No one was in sight when the car turned in at the gate, but they had not arrived many minutes—in fact he had only had time to go into the house and be kissed by Mother and come out again—when Roger appeared. Roger had missed him a lot, it seemed. At least twice every day, Mother said, he had come over from the farm in search of his friend, and had looked so disappointed at not finding him that she herself had gone out to talk to him, because she thought he deserved it for being so faithful. Tom thought so too, and their first greetings over, sat down on the lawn to pet him It was strange that dogs should be so much more trustful and easily made happy than human beings. Roger demanded no explanations or apologies; he simply turned over on to his back, waving his four legs absurdly in the air, pretending to be a puppy. Tom rubbed his chest and tumbled him over, now on this side and now on that, while Roger growled and bit and rolled his eyes, which was all part of the puppy game; and when the sound of the gong interrupted them, he followed Tom into the cloak-room, where he sat watching him while he washed his hands. After that he would have gone out as usual t
o wait on the lawn had not Tom given him a whispered signal from the dining-room door.
This was a “try-on”, as James-Arthur would have said, and Daddy immediately spotted it. “Go out, sir!” he commanded sternly, and Roger, with drooping head and tail was turning to obey, when Mother—melted it may be by his air of dejection—came to the rescue. “Oh well, perhaps for once!” she murmured, and clever old Roger, needing no more, instantly stretched himself beside Tom’s chair. Here, knowing he was only there on sufferance, he kept so still that all might have been well, and his presence very soon forgotten, had not Tom surreptitiously given him a spoonful of soup. Roger accepted it, but with so resounding a thump of his tail on the floor that naturally it attracted the attention of Daddy, who this time rose ominously from the table.
“Come on, sir; out you go!”—and before anybody could utter a word of protest, poor Roger was hustled from the room, and the door shut with what was very like a bang.
“Disgusting!” Daddy continued, returning to his seat. “Feeding him with the same spoon you’re using yourself!”
Doctor Macrory smiled one of his barely perceptible smiles, while Mother looked reproachfully at the offender as much as to say, “Now you’ve put me in the wrong!” And to relieve the situation she went on aloud; “You haven’t told us yet how you got on at Granny’s. Did you give her her book?”
Tom glanced furtively at Daddy, but Daddy’s countenance had not relaxed. “Yes,” he replied; and after a pause: “Some of Granny’s other pictures are like that—like the pictures in the book.”
As it chanced, he could not have hit on a more fortunate remark, for it straightway turned the conversation to Granny’s collections of Oriental prints and china, which Doctor Macrory declared he envied her. Granny, he said, must have a wonderful flair, and not only that, but have been uncommonly lucky as well.