The Vast Abyss
“I suppose I did knock him down, uncle, but not until he had kicked and struck me. Throw vases at him!” cried the boy indignantly; “I wouldn’t be such a coward.”
“Humph!” grunted his uncle, taking up the morning paper that Mary had just brought in; and without another word he sat back in his chair and began to read, while Tom, with his face still burning, turned once more to his book, with a strange elation beginning to take the place of the indignation he felt against his uncle, for it had suddenly occurred to him that this was the last time he would have to make his head ache over the hard, brain-wearying work. Then the elation died out again, for what was to be his future fate?
He was musing over this, and wondering whether after all he dare trust Pringle, when the door suddenly opened, Uncle Richard rustled and lowered the paper, and Mrs Brandon entered the room, looking wonderfully bright and cheerful.
“Good-morning, Richard,” she cried; “I am so sorry I am late. James will be down directly. Good-morning, Tom.”
Tom jumped in his chair at this pleasantly cordial greeting, and stared dumbfounded at his aunt.
“Not a bit late,” said Uncle Richard, after a glance at his watch. “You are very punctual. Hah, here is James.”
For at that moment Mr Brandon, looking clean-shaven and pleasant, entered the room.
“Morning, Dick,” he cried; “what a lovely air. Ah, Tom, my boy, got over the skirmish?”
Tom babbled out something, and felt giddy. What did it mean? Could they have divined that he was about to run away, and were going to alter their treatment; or had Uncle Richard, who seemed again so grave and cold, been taking his part after he had gone to bed?
But he had very little time for dwelling upon that; the question which troubled him was, How could he go away now?
The thoughts sent him into a cold perspiration, and he glanced anxiously at the clock, to see that it was a quarter past eight, and that in fifteen minutes, according to custom, he must start for the office – for the office, and then – where?
Just then Mary entered with the breakfast-tray, and, chatting pleasantly, all took their seats. Mary whisked off two covers, to display fried ham and eggs on one, hot grilled kidneys on the other.
Tom grew hotter and colder, and asked himself whether he was going out of his mind, for there was no thin tea and bread-and-butter that morning.
“Tea or coffee, Tom?” said his aunt; and Tom’s voice sounded hoarse as he chose the latter.
He was just recovering from this shock when his uncle said —
“Ham and eggs or kidneys, Tom? There, try both – they go well together.”
“Thank you, uncle,” faltered the boy; and he involuntarily looked up at Uncle Richard, who sat opposite to him, and saw that, though his face was perfectly stern and calm, his eyes were fixed upon him with a peculiar twinkling glitter.
“Bread, my boy?” he said quietly, and he took up a knife and the loaf.
“Try a French roll, Tom,” said his aunt, handing the dish.
“How can I run away?” thought Tom, as he bent over his breakfast to try and hide his agitation, for his breast was torn by conflicting emotions, and it was all he could do to continue his meal. “It’s of no use,” he said to himself, as the conversation went on at the table; and though he heard but little, he knew that it was about the guest departing that morning for his home in Surrey.
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard, “I must get back, for I’m very busy.”
“And not stay another night?” said Aunt Fanny sweetly.
“No, not this visit, thanks. I’ll get back in good time, and astonish Mrs Fidler. Hallo, squire, you’re late; Tom has half finished the kidneys.”
“Morning, uncle,” said Sam sourly; “I didn’t know it was so late. I’ve got a bad headache this morning, ma.”
“Have you, dear? – I am so sorry. But never mind, I’ve a nice strong cup of tea here, and I’ll ring for some dry toast.”
“No, don’t, ma,” said Sam, scowling at Tom, and looking wonderingly at his cousin’s plate. “I’ll have coffee and a hot roll.”
“But they will be bad for your head, love.”
Sam made no reply, but felt his plate, which was nearly cold, and then held it out to his father for some kidneys.
“Oh, Sam, my darling, don’t have kidneys, dear. I’m sure they’ll be bad for you.”
“No, they won’t, ma,” he said pettishly; and his father helped him liberally.
Uncle Richard went on with his breakfast, making believe to see nothing, but Tom noticed that his keen eyes glittered, and that nothing escaped him. Those eyes were wonderful, and fascinated the boy.
Suddenly, just as he had made a very poor breakfast, the clock on the chimney-piece gave a loud ting. It was the half-hour, and Tom rose quickly after a hasty glance at his uncle and aunt. He had had breakfast for the last time, and feeling that this change of treatment was only due to his Uncle Richard’s presence, he was more determined than ever to go.
“Good-bye, Uncle Richard,” he said firmly, but there was a husky sound in his voice.
“No, no, sit down, Tom,” was the reply. “We won’t say good-bye yet.”
Sam stopped eating, with a bit of kidney half-way to his mouth, and stared.
“Yes, sit down, Tom,” said Mr Brandon, giving a premonitory cough, after a glance at his wife. “The fact is, my lad, your uncle and I had a little conversation about you after you were gone to bed last night.”
Tom, who had subsided into his chair, took hold of the table-cloth, and began to twist it up in his agitation, as a peculiar singing noise came in his ears; and as he listened he kept on saying to himself – “Too late – too late; I must keep to it now.”
“Yes, a very long talk,” said Uncle Richard.
“Very,” acquiesced his brother; “and as we – as he – ”
“As we, James,” said Uncle Richard.
“Exactly – could not help seeing that you do not seem cut out for the law – er – hum – do not take to it – he has been kind enough to say that he will give you a trial with him down in the country.”
Tom’s head, which had been hanging down, was suddenly raised, and the words were on his lips to say No, he could not go, when he met the keen, bright, piercing eyes fixed upon his, and those words died away.
“He has not definitely decided as to what he will put you to, but means to test you, as it were, for a few months.”
The singing in Tom’s ears grew louder.
Go with that cold stern man, who had never seemed to take to him? It would be like jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. Impossible! He could not – he would not go.
“There,” said Mr Brandon in conclusion, after a good deal more, of which Tom heard not a word; “it is all settled, and you will go down with your uncle this morning, so you had better pack up your box as soon as we leave the table. Now what have you to say to your uncle for his kindness?”
“No: I will not go,” thought Tom firmly; and once more he raised his eyes defiantly to that searching pair, which seemed to be reading his; but he did not say those words, for others quite different came halting from his lips – “Thank you, Uncle Richard – and – and I will try so hard.”
“Of course you will, my boy,” said the gentleman addressed, sharply. “But mind this, the country’s very dull, my place is very lonely, all among the pine-trees, and you will not have your cousin Sam to play with.”
“Haw haw!”
This was a hoarse laugh uttered by the gentleman in question.
“I beg your pardon, Sam?” said Uncle Richard, raising his eyebrows.
“I didn’t speak, uncle,” said Sam, “but I will, and I say a jolly good job too, and good riddance of bad rubbish.”
“Sam, dear, you shouldn’t,” said his mother, in a gentle tone of reproof.
“Yes, I should; it’s quite true.”
“Hold your tongue, sir.”
“All right, father; but we shall have some peace now.”
“And I am to have all the disturbance, eh?” said Uncle Richard; “and the china vases thrown at me and smashed, eh?”
Tom darted a quick look at his uncle, and saw that he was ready to give him a nod and smile, which sent a thrill through him.
“You’ll have to lick him half-a-dozen times a week,” continued Sam.
“Indeed,” said Uncle Richard good-humouredly; “anything else?”
“Yes, lots of things,” cried Sam excitedly; “I could tell you – ”
“Don’t, please, my dear nephew,” said Uncle Richard, interrupting him; “I could not bear so much responsibility all at once. You might make me repent of my determination.”
“And you jolly soon will,” cried Sam maliciously; “for of all the – ”
“Hush, Sam, my darling!” cried his mother.
“You hold your tongue now, sir,” said Mr Brandon; “and I should feel obliged by your making haste down to the office. You can tell Pringle that your cousin is not coming any more.”
Tom started, and looked sharply from one to the other.
“Mayn’t I go and say good-bye to Pringle, uncle?” he cried.
“No, sir,” said his Uncle James coldly; “you will only have time to get your box packed. Your uncle is going to catch the ten fifty-five from Charing Cross.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “and you can write to your friend.”
“Or better not,” said Mr Brandon. “Tom has been rather too fond of making friends of people beneath him. There, my lad, you had better go and be getting ready; and I sincerely hope that you will make good use of your new opportunity.”
Tom hardly knew how he got out of the room, for he felt giddy with excitement. Then he was not going to run away, but to be taken down into Surrey by his Uncle Richard – and for what?
Would he behave well to him? He looked cold and stern, but he was not on the previous night. Young as he was, Tom could read that there was another side to his character. Yes, he must go, he thought; and then he came face to face with Mary, who came bustling out of a bedroom.
“La! Master Tom, how you startled me. Not gone to the office?”
“No, Mary. I’m going away for good with Uncle Richard.”
“Oh, I am glad! No, I ain’t – I’m sorry. But when?”
“This morning – almost directly.”
“My! I’ll go and tell cook.”
Tom reached his room, packed up his things as if in a dream, and bore the box down-stairs, his cousin having left the house some time. Then, still as if in a dream, he found himself in the breakfast-room, and heard Mary told to whistle for a cab.
Ten minutes later his uncle’s Gladstone was on the roof side by side with the modest old school box; and after saying good-bye to all, they were going down the steps.
“Jump in first, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “and let’s have no silly crying about leaving home.”
Tom started, and stared at his uncle with his eyes wonderfully dry then, but the next moment they were moist, for two female figures were at the area gate waving their handkerchiefs; and as the boy leaned forward to wave his hand in return, mingled with the trampling of the horse, and the rattle of the wheels, there came his uncle’s voice shouting Charing Cross to the cabman from the kerb, and from the area gate —
“Good-bye, Master Tom, good-bye!”
“Why, the boy’s wet-eyed!” said Uncle Richard in a peculiarly sneering voice. “What a young scoundrel you must have been, sir, to make those two servants shout after you like that! There, now for a fresh home, boy, and the beginning of a new life, for your dear dead mother’s sake.”
“Uncle!” gasped Tom, with the weak tears now really showing in his eyes, for there was a wonderful change in his companion’s voice, as he laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.
“Yes, Tom, your uncle, my boy. I never quarrel with my brother James or his wife, but I don’t believe quite all that has been said about you.”
All thought of running away to seek his fortune faded out of Tom Blount’s brain, as he sat there with his teeth pressed together, staring straight away between the horse’s ears, trying hard to be firm.
But after long months of a very wretched life it was stiff work to keep his feelings well within bounds.
Chapter Seven
“Now, Tom, cloak-room; come along. I’ve got some tackle to take down with us. Only ten minutes before we start. Here, porter, luggage – quick!”
A man came forward with a barrow, and after taking the luggage from the cab, followed to the cloak-room, from whence sundry heavy, peculiar-looking packages and a box were handed out and trundled to the train; and in a few minutes, with his heart beating wildly, and a feeling of excitement making him long to jump up and shout aloud, Tom sat there watching the houses and trees seem to glide more and more swiftly past the windows as the speed increased. For to him it was like being suddenly freed from prison; and instead of the black cloud which had been hanging before his eyes – the blank curtain of the future which he had vainly tried to penetrate – he was now gazing mentally ahead along a vista full of bright sunshine and joy.
There were two other passengers in the carriage, who, like his uncle, were soon absorbed in their papers, and not a word was spoken until these two got out at the first stopping-place, twenty miles from town; and as soon as the porter had given the door that tremendous unnecessary bang so popular with his fraternity, and the train was speeding on again, Uncle Richard threw down his paper with a loud “Hah!” and turned to his nephew.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “I don’t know what I am to do with you now I have got you. You don’t want to go on with the law?”
“Oh no, sir, I am too stupid,” said Tom quickly.
“Why do you say ‘sir,’ my boy? Will not uncle do for your mother’s brother?”
“Uncle James told me always to say ‘sir,’ sir – uncle I mean.”
“Ah, but I’m not your Uncle James, and I like the old-fashioned way. Well, as you are too stupid for the law, I suppose I must try you with something easier – say mathematics.”
Tom looked at him aghast.
“A nice pleasant subject, full of calculations. But we shall see. I suppose you will not mind helping me?”
“I shall be glad to, uncle.”
“That’s right; but you don’t know yet what I want you to do. You will have to take your coat off sometimes, work hard, put on an apron, and often get dirty.”
“Gardening, uncle? Oh, I shall like that.”
“Yes; gardening sometimes, but in other ways too. I do a deal of tinkering now and then.” Tom stared.
“Yes, I mean it: with tin and solder, and then I try brass and turning. I have a regular workshop, you know, with a small forge and anvil. Can you blow bellows?”
Tom stared a little harder as he gazed in the clear grey eyes and the calm unruffled countenance, in which there was not the dawn of a smile.
“I never tried,” said Tom, “but I feel sure I could.”
“And I feel sure you cannot without learning; some of the easiest-looking things are the hardest, you know. Of course any one can blow forge bellows after a fashion, but it requires some pains to manage the blast aright, and not send the small coal and sparks flying over the place, while the iron is being burned up.”
“Iron burned up?” said Tom.
“To be sure. If I put a piece in the forge, I could manage the supply of oxygen so as to bring it from a cherry heat right up to a white, while possibly at your first trial you would burn a good deal of the iron away.”
“I did not know that,” said Sam.
“And I suppose there are a few other little things you do not know, my boy. There’s a deal to learn, Tom, and the worst or best of it is, that the more you find out the more you realise that there is no end to discovery. But so much for the blacksmith’s work.”
“But you are not a blacksmith, uncle.”
“Oh yes, I am, Tom, and a carpenter too. A bad workman I know, but I manage what I want. Then there is my new business too at the mill.”
“Steam mill, uncle?”
“Oh no, nor yet water. It’s a regular old-fashioned flour-mill with five sails. How shall you like that business?”
Tom looked harder at his uncle.
“Well, boy, do I seem a little queer? People down at Furzebrough say I am.”
“No, sir,” said Tom, colouring; “but all this does sound a little strange. Do you really mean that you have a windmill?”
“Yes, Tom, now. My very own, my boy. It was about that I came up yesterday – to pay the rest of the purchase-money, and get the deeds. Now we can set to work and do what we like.”
Tom tried hard, but he could not help looking wonderingly at his uncle, of whom he had previously hardly seen anything. He knew that he had been in India till about a year before, and that his mother had once spoken of him as being eccentric. Now it appeared that he was to learn what this eccentricity meant.
“Did you learn any chemistry when you were at school, Tom?” said his uncle, after a pause.
“Very little, uncle. There were some lectures and experiments.”
“All useful, boy. You know something about physics, of course?”
“Physics, uncle?” faltered Tom, as he began to think what an empty-headed fellow he was.
“Yes, physics; not physic – salts and senna, rhubarb and magnesia, and that sort of thing; but natural science, heat and light, and the wonders of optics.”
Tom shook his head.
“Very little, uncle.”
“Ah, well, you’ll soon pick them up if you are interested, and not quite such a fool as your uncle made out. Do you know, Tom, that windmill has made me think that I never could have been a lawyer.”
Tom was silent. Things seemed to be getting worse.
“Four times have I had to come up to town and see my lawyer, who had to see the seller’s lawyer over and over again – the vendor I ought to have said. Now I suppose you wouldn’t have thought that I was a vendee, would you?”
“Oh yes, I know that,” said Sam. “You would be if you bought an estate.”
“Come, then, you do know something, my lad. But it has been a tiresome business, with its investigation of titles and rights of usance, and court copyhold fines, and – Bother the business, it has taken up no end of time. But there, it’s all over, and you and I can go and make the dust fly and set the millstones spinning as much as we like. Thumpers they are, Tom, three feet in diameter. I wish to goodness they had been discs of glass instead of stone.”
“Do you, uncle?” said Tom, for his companion was evidently waiting for an answer.
“Yes; we could have tried some fine experiments with them, whereas they will be useless and unsalable I expect.”
To Tom’s great relief the conversation reverted to his life at Gray’s Inn and Mornington Crescent, for the impression would keep growing upon him that what people said about his uncle’s queerness might have some basis. But this opinion was soon shaken as they went on, for he was questioned very shrewdly about his cousin and all that had passed between them, till all at once his companion held out his hand.
“Shake hands, Tom, my boy. We are just entering Furzebrough parish, and I want to say this: – You came to me with an execrable character – ”
“Yes, uncle; I’m very sorry.”
“Then I’m not, my lad. For look here: I have been questioning you for the last hour, and I have observed one thing – in all your statements about your cousin, who is an abominably ill-behaved young whelp, you have never once spoken ill-naturedly about him, nor tried to run him down. I like this, my lad, and in spite of all that has been said, I believe that you and I will be very good friends indeed.”
“Thank you, uncle,” said Tom, huskily. “I mean to try.”
“I know that, or I wouldn’t have brought you home. There, there, look! quick! before it runs behind that fir clump, that’s the old madman’s windmill.”
Tom turned sharply to the window, and caught sight of a five-sailed windmill some five miles away, on a long wooded ridge.
“See it?”
“Yes, uncle; I just caught sight of it.”
“That’s right; and in five minutes, when we are out of the cutting, you can see Heatherleigh in the opening between the two fir-woods.”
“That’s your house, uncle?”
“Yes, my lad – that’s my house, where I carry on all my diabolical schemes, and perform my incantations, as old Mother Warboys says. You didn’t know what a wicked uncle you had.”
“No, sir,” said Tom, smiling.
“Oh, I’m a dreadful wretch; and you did not know either, that within five-and-thirty miles of London as the crow flies, there is as much ignorance and superstition as there was a couple of hundred years or so ago, when they burnt people for being witches and wizards, and the like. There, now look; you can just see Heatherleigh there. No; too late – it’s gone.”
Tom felt puzzled. One minute he was drawn strongly towards his uncle, the next he felt uneasy, for there was something peculiar about him. Then he grew more puzzled as to whether the eccentricity was real or assumed. But he soon had something else to think of, for five minutes after a run through a wild bit of Surrey, that looked gloriously attractive with its sandy cuttings, commons, and fir-trees, to a boy who had been shut up closely for months in London, his uncle suddenly cried, “Here we are!” and rose to get his umbrella and overcoat out of the rack.
“Let’s see, Tom,” he said; “six packages in the van, haven’t we? Mind that nothing is left behind.”
The train was slackening speed, and the next minute they were standing on the platform of a pretty attractive station, quite alone amongst the fir-trees. The station-master’s house was covered with roses and clematis, and he and the porters were evidently famous gardeners in their loneliness, for there was not a house near, the board up giving the name of the station as Furzebrough Road.
“Shall I take the luggage, sir?” said a man, touching his hat; and at the same moment Tom caught sight of a solitary fly standing outside the railings.
“Yes; six packages. By the way, Mr Day, did a box come down for me?”
This to the station-master, who came up as the train glided off and disappeared in a tunnelled sandhill a hundred yards farther.
“Yes, sir; very heavy box, marked ‘Glass, with care.’ Take it with you?”
“Yes, and let it be with care. Here, I’ll come and pay the rates. Tom, my lad, see that the things are all got to the fly.”
Tom nodded; and as his uncle disappeared in the station-master’s office, he went to where the two porters were busy with a barrow and the luggage.
They were laughing and chatting with the flyman, and did not notice Tom’s approach, so that he winced as he heard one of the porters say —
“Always some fresh contrapshum or another. Regular old lunatic, that’s what he is.”
“What’s he going to do with that old mill?” said the other.
“Shoot the moon they – Is this all, sir?” said the flyman, who caught sight of Tom.
The boy nodded, and felt indignant as well as troubled, for he had learned a little about public opinion concerning his uncle.
“Be careful,” he said; “some of those things are glass.”
“All right, sir; we’ll be careful enough. Look alive, Jem. Where will you have the box as come down by’s mornin’s goods?”
“On the footboard. Won’t break us down, will it?”
“Tchah! not it. On’y about a hundredweight.”
By the time the luggage was stowed on and about the fly, Uncle Richard came out, and expressed his satisfaction.
“Rather a lonely place in winter, Tom,” he said, as he entered the stably-smelling old fly.
“Yes, but very beautiful,” replied Tom. “Have we far to go?”
“Three miles, my lad, to the village, and a quarter of a mile further to the house.”
It was a very slow ride, along sandy lanes, through which, as soon as there was the slightest suggestion of a hill, the horse walked; but everything looked lovely on this bright summer day. High banks where ferns clustered, plantations of fir, where brilliantly-plumaged pheasants looked up to see them pass, and every now and then rabbits scuttled up the steep sandy slopes, showing their white cottony tails before they disappeared amongst the bracken, or dived into a hole. Wild-flowers too dotted the sides of the lane, and as Tom sat gazing out of the window, drinking in the country sweets, his uncle nodded and smiled.
“Will it do, my boy?” he said.
“Do!” cried Tom, ecstatically; “it’s lovely!”
“Humph! yes. Sun shines – don’t rain.”
In due time they reached and passed through a pretty flowery village, dotted about by the sides of a green, and with several houses of a better class, all looking as if surrounded by large gardens and orchards. Then, all at once, Tom’s companion exclaimed —
“Here’s the mill!” and he had hardly glanced at the tall round brick tower, with its wooden movable cap, sails, and fan, all looking weather-beaten and dilapidated, when his uncle exclaimed – “Here we are!” and down on a slope, nearly hidden in trees, he saw the red-tiled gables of a very attractive old English house, at whose gate the fly stopped.