The Retreat

by Forrest Reid

  Mary gave a kind of snort. “Oh, indeed!” she retorted. “It’s well there’s somebody that knows everything! Of all the conceited little brats!” And she flounced out of the room, bearing with her the evidence of calamity.

  Tom chuckled feebly, but Pascoe’s face was crimson. “She oughtn’t to be allowed to speak like that,” he spluttered. “You ought——”

  “How can I help it!” Tom interrupted. “I expect she and Phemie were in the middle of their tea when the bell rang, and it’s not the sort of job anybody likes at such a time. You were jolly lucky that she didn’t box your ears.”

  He chuckled again, and Pascoe stalked to the door with a frigid “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” Tom called after him. “Thanks for coming.”

  Pascoe stopped. With his hand on the door-knob he stood wavering. At last he turned round. “I may come to see you again or I may not,” he pronounced doubtfully.

  “If you don’t,” Tom reminded him, “you won’t be able to dam the stream.”

  Pascoe instantly returned to the bedside. He particularly wanted to dam the stream, and had even planned the construction of a new channel. Anyhow his exit was all spoiled by Tom’s indifference, so it was with a complete return to affability that he asked: “When do you think you’ll be well enough?”

  “I don’t know. In a day or two. At the moment I believe I’m going to be sick again.”

  “Oh, here!” Pascoe remonstrated, drawing hurriedly back.

  “Well, I can’t help it,” Tom grumbled, though he was still half laughing. “I feel rotten.”

  “I’ll tell that woman,” said Pascoe. “And I dare say I’ll come to-morrow.”

  This time he really did go, and a minute or two later Mary reappeared. “I’m most frightfully sorry, Mary,” Tom apologized humbly. “It was a false alarm.”

  But when he was alone again he shut his eyes and lay quiet. He was glad Pascoe had gone, for he wanted to lie still, without talking to anybody. In a little while he might begin to read, but just now it was more comfortable to lie thinking. Pascoe’s visit had reminded him of school and Miss Jimpson, and that his absence must have interfered with her plans concerning Mr. Holbrook. Not that he could really have helped her much. Mother, to whom he had imparted his impressions of Miss Jimpson’s romance, had told him it was all nonsense and that he was on no account to say or do anything. She had been very positive about this, and for some reason not particularly pleased. . . .

  Dash it all, he might have talked to Pascoe about the holidays! Those beastly wine gums had put it out of his head. Pascoe usually spent his holidays with an ancient aunt who lived in the Manor House at Greencastle in Donegal, and it was to Greencastle that Tom and Mother and Daddy were going—to an hotel there. Of course he had already told Pascoe this, but they hadn’t had time to discuss it properly and there were all sorts of questions he wanted to ask. However, he was pretty sure Pascoe would come back to-morrow. . . .

  He wondered if he would see much of Pascoe after the holidays. Not nearly so much, anyhow, for Pascoe, like Brown, was leaving at the end of term, and at his new school he would be a boarder. Tom half wished that he was leaving too, though he dreaded changes. Still, he would have to leave fairly soon in any case, and it might as well be now—Daddy had even suggested it, but had somehow let the matter drop. On the other hand he would like to stay on till after the Christmas concert, and he would hate saying good-bye to Mr. Holbrook: there were difficulties both ways. . . .

  Presently he took up his book. He did not open it, but holding it in his hands still lay thinking. The book didn’t interest him, it was stodgy and dull—a story of the Peninsular War, and war stories always bored him. There was a book downstairs in the study, however, which did interest him, and he felt suddenly tempted to go and get it. The temptation was strong, and it was undisguised, for Tom knew very well that it was temptation. He had discovered this book some weeks ago, quite by chance, on the top shelf of a locked bookcase, and had first been attracted by the queer pictures it contained. These had to do with magic, but not the kind of magic described in fairy tales. This was utterly different, and, whether true or false, was propounded seriously, while the magicians mentioned were persons who had actually lived—Nicholas Flamel, Schroepffer of Leipsig, Cagliostro, Doctor Dee and others—wizards and alchemists, evokers of spirits, searchers for the Elixir of Life and the Stone of the Philosophers. The book told of black magic and white magic, of the doctrine and rituals; it explained ceremonies and symbols, it described experiments. Tom had kept his discovery to himself, feeling sure, before he had read many pages, that though this book must belong to Daddy, Daddy certainly would forbid him to read it. He had read it however; there could be no going back on that. He had not only read it but pored over it, and at present he wanted to pore over it again. Yet in another way he didn’t, because he knew that he would hide it under the bedclothes the moment he heard Mother coming in, and that was rotten. Besides, there were things in the book—He didn’t quite know what some of them meant, though he could guess vaguely, and that, somehow, helped to keep them in his mind. It might have been this book, too, that had first made him begin to think queer thoughts about Henry.

  What he didn’t understand was how it could ever have come into the possession of Daddy. He could understand Daddy’s borrowing it, and glancing through it perhaps, out of curiosity, but not keeping it. For one thing, he wouldn’t believe a word of it: in fact it was exactly the sort of stuff that would irritate him most, with its fantastic statements unsupported by proof, and its mysterious hints at secrets that must not be fully revealed. Of course, Daddy might have bought it with a lot of other books at an auction, or it might have been given to him. It was at any rate a strange book for him to have; and Mother, Tom was sure, would think it wicked.

  Abruptly he decided that he wouldn’t look at it again. Yet still he didn’t feel happy. There wasn’t much virtue in so late a resolution—nor much use either, since his memory could now supply all that his imagination needed. He felt that perhaps he ought to tell Daddy about it: he felt that he wasn’t quite what either Daddy or Mother believed him to be. And that was to put it mildly! Anyway, he resolved that he wouldn’t look at the book again, or, if he could help it, think about it. . . .

  This determination brought him relief, and gradually his mind emptied and stilled. His feeling of sickness, too, had completely gone; he felt now only languid and comfortably drowsy. The soft summer murmur floated in to him through the open windows. The afternoon sounds, the afternoon silence were different from the morning, he thought—or was it only the light that was deeper? He would think of pleasant things. Mother said Donegal was lovely. That was easy to believe, but Mother had never been in the particular part of Donegal they were going to, so had been unable to give him any details. He lay making pictures of the sea; and behind the pictures he called up, and washing through them, was a low endless music, for he could not look at even imaginary waves without also hearing them. . . .

  * * *

  “Well, have you had a nice sleep?” Mother was home again, and bending down over him with her hat still on, so that she must only this moment have come in.

  “I suppose so,” he smiled.

  “And are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, a great deal better, Mother dear.” And this was true: half an hour’s sleep had revived him marvellously. But he knew from the way she had spoken that her inquiry had merely been a general one, and that she had heard nothing about the wine gums. Probably she had come straight upstairs without seeing Mary.

  “That’s good,” she said. “Would you like to get up? I don’t mean now, but after dinner. I shouldn’t think it would do you any harm to get up for an hour or two then.”

  “I will,” said Tom. “Have you just come in?”

  “A few minutes ago,” Mother answered. “It’s nearly half-past six. What have you been doing?”

  “Nothing much,” said Tom. “Pascoe was here for a bit
. What have you been doing?”

  “Interviewing Mr. Pemberton part of the time. I think we’ll try to get away as soon as we can—perhaps early next week—and I wanted to explain things to him.”

  “But will Daddy be able to go next week?” Tom inquired.

  “I don’t know; we’ll talk it over this evening.” She sat down on the side of his bed.

  “Where did you meet Mr. Pemberton?” Tom asked, after a moment.

  “I didn’t meet him, I called at the school.”

  “But——” His brow puckered a little.

  “I saw your friend Miss Jimpson too,” Mother went on, “and had a talk with her.”

  This was getting serious, and Tom’s face reflected his anxiety. “You didn’t mention what I told you, I hope?”

  Mother looked at him curiously. “About her troubles? No: she struck me as being a singularly heart-whole young woman, and quite capable of attending to her own affairs.”

  Still he wasn’t completely reassured, for he knew Mother had a habit of saying whatever came into her head, without caring a scrap to whom she said it. “What did you talk about?” he persisted.

  “Chiefly about you,” Mother teased him. “Miss Jimpson seems very fond of you.”

  Tom blushed. “Oh!” he muttered, taken aback. He waited for her to tell him more, but she didn’t, so he was obliged to ask: “What did she say?”

  “That she thought you were a dear little boy, though at the same time rather peculiar.”

  Tom blushed again. He didn’t believe Miss Jimpson had said that—at least not just so plump and plain, nor in those words. “Did you tell her I wasn’t?” he demanded, for Mother had another of her pauses.

  “No, why should I? I entirely agreed with her.”

  Tom glanced up quickly, and then for a little lay silent. “Did you talk for long?” was his next question.

  “Not very; a quarter of an hour perhaps. Much can be said in a quarter of an hour.” She still smiled down at him, and then suddenly asked: “Why are you so suspicious? What do you imagine I may have said to her?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Tom murmured doubtfully; “that’s just the trouble.”

  He became conscious that Mother was looking at him with an ironical expression in her eyes, and he turned away. “Would you rather people disliked you?” she said, but he made no reply. He knew that she knew he hated people to dislike him, and indeed next moment she proved it by adding: “So you see!”

  She stooped down and Tom put his arms round her neck.

  “Why are you such a silly?” she whispered.

  He didn’t know why, and he didn’t know that it was silly. Pascoe, he was sure, would have hated to be thought a dear little boy, and still more to be called one; and though he hadn’t any particular wish to resemble Pascoe, neither was there any need to be sloppy. He wondered if he was sloppy? He was afraid it looked very like it—sometimes. Secret sloppiness didn’t so much matter; at all events you couldn’t help it; but open sloppiness was another thing, and the difficulty was to keep it secret—at least with people like Mother, who didn’t pay the slightest attention to what you said, but went bang behind your words to what they outwardly denied. He felt very contented now, for instance, though there was no doubt that she was petting him. In fact it was pretty awful, and she herself of course was quite shameless. But then, he liked it, and she must have guessed that. He sighed, and thought of the reserved and austere Pascoe. Also he thought that he wasn’t a “dear little boy”, and perhaps he ought to tell her so. He wasn’t particularly little to begin with, and, though he might be dear to Mother, that wasn’t what either she or Miss Jimpson had meant. What they had meant was something quite different, and it wasn’t true. It might be true in some ways—at least he hoped it was—but it certainly wasn’t in all.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE HOUSE was to be shut up, though William of course was to look after the garden as usual. But Phemie and Mary were going to stay with their own people near Downpatrick, and this had created the problem of Henry. Henry had no people, or none that anybody knew about, and obviously he couldn’t be taken to an hotel. It was decided therefore to leave him, like the garden, to William, until Phemie at the last moment thought he would be more comfortable at Downpatrick. Why, nobody quite knew, and Mother was doubtful if Henry would want to go; but Phemie was sure he would. She made ready a travelling-basket, and after all, though everyone had forgotten about it, she had a kind of proprietary right in Henry, he was her cat, or at least it was she who had first opened the door to him. So that was settled, and it was remarkable how confident Phemie was, even going the length of showing the basket beforehand to Henry, who glanced at it and yawned. “You see, Master Tom, it will be quite easy.”

  Thus speaking, Phemie placed the basket on the kitchen table, with a sort of “this-is-how-we-do-it” air, like a conjuror about to perform a trick that has never yet failed.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to shut the window?” Tom suggested, but Phemie ignored his advice. She smiled and shook her head. Then she approached Henry, who having recently finished a plate of fish was in a lethargic mood, and allowed her to lift him in her arms and set him standing up in the basket. True, she had to hold him there, but his struggles were perfunctory, there was really nothing more to do except to get him to lie down so that the lid could be closed and fastened. That was a simple matter, and to accomplish it Phemie, still smiling complacently, laid a large flat hand on the middle of Henry’s back. Tom at this point breathed “Look out!” but Phemie pressed firmly and at the same time tried to pull down the lid. It was only then that Henry awakened to her intention. His whole body stiffened; he neither spat nor swore; but he drew one lightning incision about two inches long down Phemie’s wrist. There was a scream; the basket was knocked flying; and Henry, like a black streak, disappeared through the kitchen window.

  Phemie wept, which in so strong-minded a person struck Tom as disappointing. It struck Mother in the same light, for there was nothing to cry about, though the scratch was a nasty one and had to be treated with iodine. After that nobody pretended to have any further qualms about leaving Henry behind; William was told to fix up a bed for him in the wood-shed; and though it was practically certain that Henry would occupy another bed, of his own choosing, human duties were felt to be fulfilled.

  Henry in the meantime was gone, and after such behaviour you wouldn’t have expected him to reappear till the house was shut and the coast clear; yet actually he turned up half an hour later, when Phemie and Mary had departed to catch their train. Daddy and Mother were still upstairs, but the luggage had been brought down and packed into the car, and Tom was merely waiting in the hall when Henry strolled in through the open front door just as if nothing had happened. He walked straight up to Tom, his tail in the air, and began to rub against his legs, purring loudly. “No,” Tom scolded, rejecting these overtures. “You’re a bad cat and I don’t want you. You can have the house to yourself since you’re so determined; but it will be the outside of it.”

  He had no sooner said this, however, than it struck him as premature. Nothing was more probable than that Henry would contrive to find a way into the house if he wished to. Just now he seemed to be very affectionate and anxious to make friends, but hadn’t he already achieved the first of his purposes, which simply was to be left behind?

  And Henry, between Tom’s legs, purred louder and louder, rolling up his eyes sentimentally. There weren’t any whites, but if there had been, nothing else would have been visible, so Tom looked into the “greens” and pondered. There must be something behind all this—some object—and though he failed to guess the object, he sat down on the floor and absentmindedly began to stroke Henry, without realizing that he was doing so.

  Henry arched his spine and gave a tiny guttural cry from the back of his throat. It was really quite a touching picture of the emotional interval before bidding farewell; and also, Tom felt, it was a direct invitat
ion to him not to go with the others, but to change his mind and stay on, when he and Henry would have the house to themselves.

  “I must be getting frightfully suspicious,” he thought. And, “We’re a nice pair!” he added to Henry. “Though it’s mostly your fault and I’m not just going to let you have it all your own way.”

  At these words Henry hid his face, thrusting it against Tom’s jacket, while simultaneously the grandfather’s clock struck eleven, and Tom couldn’t help thinking there was warning in its voice, and, when he looked up, in its kind old face also. It was a clock of the highest principles—anybody could see that—and he turned Henry round so that he might get an object lesson. But Henry didn’t look—wouldn’t look—which in itself was a bad sign. The clock, Tom decided, ought to be wound up the very last thing, so that for eight days at least, even if Henry did succeed in breaking in, the house would have a proper guardian. The only drawback to this scheme was that he had been strictly forbidden to wind it: Daddy always wound it himself; and there wouldn’t be the least use in trying to explain the present situation to Daddy.

  He would wind it. He hesitated only for a moment, then quickly crossed the hall, opened the case, and proceeded to do so—after which he felt better. He listened to the comfortable ticks, and each tick assured him that the clock was pleased and would try to keep awake as long as possible. “I believe he will, too,” Tom said, and to Henry: “Now—he’ll tell me everything that happens while we’re away, so you’d better be careful!”

  “And goodness knows what he’s up to at this moment!” he concluded aloud, for he had merely been going over all this parting scheme in memory; actually Henry and the clock were far away; Tom, Daddy, and Mother had been in Donegal for more than a week now, staying at the Fort Hotel at Greencastle; and at the present moment he was climbing the hill to Glenagivney.