Kitabı oku: «The Vast Abyss», sayfa 21
Chapter Forty One
Tom was some ten feet or so from the ground when he described an arc in the darkness, so that it was not a very serious fall, but bad enough to knock the sense out of him for a moment or two, and the worse from its coming so closely upon his bumping down the upper steps. Consequently he lay quite still with the ladder upon him for a while, with a dim idea that he could hear whispering, scrambling, and then the patter of steps somewhere not far away.
Those footsteps were still to be heard when the boy thrust the ladder over, rose very slowly to a sitting position, and tried to look round him, seeing more stars than he had when he knelt at his bedroom window, these too having a peculiar circling motion of their own, which made his head ache violently.
“He’s got the best of me again,” said the boy rather piteously, “for it’s no good to go after him now.”
Tom had the organ of order sufficiently developed to make him wish to pick up and return the ladder instead of leaving it lying in the yard; but he felt shaken up, and the feeling of confusion came upon him again so strongly that he stood thinking for a few minutes, and then went and unlocked the gate, listened a while, and then locked it after him and crossed the lane into the garden.
The next minute he was under his bedroom window, feeling unwilling to climb up, for he was getting cold and stiff; but he dragged himself on to the sill, got in, and without stopping to undress, threw himself on the bed and fell into a sound sleep, in which he dreamed that two policemen came down from London with the big black prison van and carried off Pete Warboys, who was taken to the Old Bailey to be tried for stealing the round wooden dome-shaped structure which formed the top of the mill.
He was awakened next morning soon after six by the pattering at his window of some scraps of fine gravel, and jumping off the bed he found David below on the lawn.
“Here, look sharp and come down, Master Tom,” cried the gardener excitedly.
“What’s the matter?” said Tom, whose mind was rather blank as to the past night’s business.
“Some ’un’s been in the night and stole the tallowscoop.”
“Nonsense!”
“But they have, sir. It’s as fact as fack. There’s the top wooden window open, and Jellard’s long fruit-ladder lying in the yard.”
Tom hurried down at once, to find the ladder just as he had left it; and on entering the mill, closely followed by David, he looked round for traces of the burglarious work that must have been done.
But all was in its ordinary state in the workshop, and after a sharp investigation, Tom was on his way to the steps, when David looked at him in a half-injured way as if disappointed.
“What, arn’t nothing stole here, sir?”
“No; everything seems to be right,” replied Tom.
“Well, I should ha’ thought they’d ha’ took the spacklums or something while they was about it.”
But matters wore a different aspect upon the laboratory being reached. On the whole the place looked undisturbed, save that a rug or two had been kicked up, and a chair tilted over against the wall; but at the second glance Tom felt a thrill, for there facing him was the old walnut bureau, with its drawers open, and the contents tumbled over and over, the small top drawer to the right especially taking Tom’s attention, for it hung nearly out and was perfectly empty.
There had not been much in it, only a few papers, but one was the large cartridge paper envelope, which contained the documents given to him by his uncle when that strange visit was paid. These had evidently gone; what else had been taken it was impossible to say.
“They’ve been at it here, Master Tom, haven’t they?”
“I’m afraid so, David.”
“Then hadn’t I better go and fetch the policeman directly, sir?”
“No,” said Tom decisively. “We must wait till uncle comes back, and see what he says.”
“But they’ll get right away, sir, ’fore he comes back.”
“I’m afraid whoever it was has got right away, David,” said Tom; and he told his companion as much of the events of the past night as he thought necessary.
“Oh, why didn’t you come and call me up, Master Tom?” cried the gardener reproachfully. “If I’d been there we could ha’ captivated ’em, for there must ha’ been two. That there ladder couldn’t ha’ lifted itself up again, and stood ready for the one inside to get down.”
“Yes, there must have been two,” said Tom thoughtfully.
“You should ha’ comed and called me, sir – you should indeed. I’ve got as much right to take care o’ master’s property when he’s out as you have.”
“I never thought of it, David.”
“It’s on’y three ’undered and forty-nine yards and a half to my cottage, sir. You might have thought o’ me.”
“I only wish I had,” said Tom warmly. “I should have been so glad to have you.”
“Well, sir, there’s something in that,” said David, but only to repeat himself in a reproachful tone – “It was on’y three ’undered and forty-nine yards, and what’s that to a young gent like you.”
“It can’t be helped now, David. Let’s go up-stairs.”
Tom felt stiffer as he went up the step-ladder, and the whole business of the struggle in the dark came back as they stood in the observatory, where all seemed to be correct, save an overturned stool, and the position of the telescope in the middle changed.
“What’s gone from here, sir?” asked David.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Oh, but they must have took something else, sir.”
“Perhaps so, but I cannot see what.”
“Then that’s because you disturbed ’em, sir. They was ramshacking your uncle’s desk thing when you come. Tend upon it that was it. Oh, I do wish I’d been there just at the bottom of the ladder ready to nab ’em as they come down. Say, Master Tom – think your uncle kep’ his money in that there old chest-o’-drawers thing?”
“I think he used to keep a little bag of change there,” replied Tom thoughtfully; and it seemed more probable that the thieves were after that than in search of papers, which could have been of no earthly use to them, though the drawer was nearly empty all the same.
“You did get hold o’ one of ’em, sir?” said David, after a pause.
“Oh, yes, more than once.”
“And he felt like that there Pete Warboys, didn’t he?”
“Yes – no – I don’t know,” said Tom confusedly; and David scratched his head.
“That’s like asking a man a riddle, sir,” he said. “Can’t make much o’ that.”
“Well, what can I say, David?” cried Tom impatiently. “It was pitch dark, and I was thinking of nothing else but catching him. I could see nothing but the dim-looking windows.”
“But you felt him, sir.”
“Oh yes, I had hold of him.”
“Well, did he feel like Pete?”
“What nonsense! One lad would feel like another.”
“Oh no, sir, he wouldn’t. Pete’s bones’d feel all loose and shimbly. Bound to say you heared his jyntes keep on cracking.”
“No, I don’t remember that. – Yes, I do,” continued Tom excitedly. “I did hear him go crack twice when we were wrestling.”
“There you are, you see,” cried the gardener triumphantly, “that’s c’roborative evidence, and c’roborative evidence is what they make detective police on. It was Pete Warboys, sure enough.”
“I thought it must be, David.”
“Not a doubt ’bout it, sir. We’ve got him this time safe enough, and he’ll be sent away for the job, and a blessing to Furzebrough, I say. But I’ll try you again, sir. Just lead you up like. Now, then, to make more sure – you smelt him too, didn’t you?”
“Smelt him?” cried Tom.
“Ay, sir, that’s what I said. You could smell him yards away.”
“Oh no, I didn’t smell him,” said Tom, laughing.
“Do you mean to tell me, Master Tom, that, you didn’t smell Pete the other night when you was letting go at him with that stick atop o’ our wall?”
“I remember smelling onions very strong.”
“There!” cried David triumphantly. “Of course you did. I like an onion roasted, or in stuffing, or the little ’uns pickled, but that chap lives on ’em. You ask anybody in the village, and they’ll tell you they can’t keep an onion in their gardens for him. He’s a savage at ’em. And you mean to tell me that you didn’t smell onions when you was fighting with him last night?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“I don’t like that,” said David, polishing one of his red ears. “P’r’aps he hadn’t been able to steal any yesterday. But it’s a wonder you didn’t smell that.”
“But perhaps it wasn’t Pete.”
“Now don’t say that, my lad. There’s no getting away from them bones. Nobody never had such loose bones. It was him right enough.”
“Think so, David?” said Tom dubiously.
“Course I do, Master Tom. Who else would ha’ knowed where to find Jellard’s ladder?”
“Plenty o’ people,” said Tom eagerly; “all the village.”
“Don’t you say a word, like that, Master Tom,” said the gardener solemnly, “because it arn’t right. I’ve knowed Furzebrough man and boy ever since I was born, and there arn’t a soul in it as’d go and get that ladder and break in and steal your uncle’s contrapshums. I won’t say as there arn’t a lot o’ people who talk about ’em, and believe old Mother Warboys when she says they’re bad and dangerous, and like to bring evil on the place; but, bless your ’art, sir, there arn’t one as would do your uncle harm. I won’t say as the boys, and maybe a school-gal, wouldn’t help theirselves to a happle or a pear or two as were in reach – I won’t deceive you, Master Tom, I’ve done it myself coming home from school; but take it altogether, there arn’t a honester village nowhere in Sorrey, and I’ll stick to that, even if I was up before a judge, and a jury of my fellow-countrymen swore me till I was black in the face.”
Tom smiled.
“Ah, you may laugh, sir,” said David, shaking his head; “that’s youth, and wanting to know better. I’m a bit older than you. This here’s a honest place, sir. I won’t say nothing about tramps from London, and furreners coming in search o’ work; but you might keep gold and silver jools down here without locking your doors – leastwise if Pete Warboys warn’t about; but I told you how it would be.”
“Well, let’s go down, David,” said Tom, who could not help thinking about the proverb concerning a dog with a bad name. “This shutter must have a proper fastening. But who would have thought of any one getting a ladder? You had better take it back.”
“Yes, sir, and tell old Jellard to put a chain and padlock on it, or else there’s no knowing what may happen.”
So after deciding to leave the old bureau just as it was until his uncle had examined and seen what was missing, and noting that it had been opened by means of some kind of chisel inserted just above the keyhole, Tom locked up, and then held the gate open for David to carry the ladder he had shouldered home.
“Nyste sort of a job, Master Tom,” he said, “clearing up the bits arter robbers and thieves; but there – you never knows what you may come to in this life.”
The next moment Tom had to duck his head to avoid a blow as the ladder was swung round; and that morning Mrs Fidler, who knew nothing of what had happened, took Tom aside directly after breakfast.
“I beg your pardon, Master Tom,” she began, and the boy stared; “I didn’t notice it before we begun, but I do now, and as master’s out it makes me feel anxious. You’re not well, sir.”
“Oh yes, quite well,” said Tom hastily.
“No, sir, you can’t deceive me. But I know it’s only natural for young people to say so. Physic isn’t nice, sir, but it’s very necessary sometimes, and if you would be advised by me you’d let me give you something this morning. Better late than never, sir.”
“What, me take some medicine?” cried Tom. “Nonsense! I’m quite right.”
Mrs Fidler shook her head.
“Take which you like, sir; I’ve got them both in my store closet. A tablespoonful of castor oil – ”
“Ugh!” ejaculated Tom, with a grimace.
” – Or a cupful of prune tea.”
“That sounds better,” said Tom, smiling.
Mrs Fidler shook her head.
“I shouldn’t like to deceive you, Master Tom,” she said, “because though prune tea sounds very nice, you don’t taste the French plums I make it of, but the salts and senna in which the prunes are stewed. But it’s a very, very valuable medicine, my dear, and if you will be prevailed upon – Dear me! look at that now. Oh, how obstinate young folks can be!”
For at her description of the concoction of prune tea, Tom thrust his handkerchief to his mouth, and ran out into the garden, before going across to the workshop to continue the manufacture of a perfect plane of glass, such as would satisfy Uncle Richard on his return.
Chapter Forty Two
Uncle James Brandon sat one morning a short time before the events of the night described in the last chapters, biting his nails, and looking old, yellow, and careworn. He was supposed to be quite well again, and the doctors had given up visiting him, but, as his son said in a very contemptuous, unfilial way to his mother —
“He’s better in health than temper, and if things are going on like this I shall be off somewhere, for I’m sick of it.”
For there had been quarrels daily between father and son, stormings against wife and servants, and poor Pringle the clerk had vowed to himself that he would not stay at the office for another week; but he always stayed, for there were reasons at home against his throwing himself out of work.
So Uncle James sat in his private room at the Gray’s Inn office, looking old, yellow, and biting his nails, like the ancient ogre, sometimes making up his mind in one direction, sometimes in another.
At last he touched his table gong, and, as quickly as he could get there, Pringle presented himself.
“You ring, sir?”
“You know I rang, sir,” cried Uncle James savagely. “Send him here directly.”
“Cert’ny, sir, but – er – ”
“I said send him here.”
“Yes, sir. Who, sir?”
“Mr Samuel, you blockhead. Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sir; but Mr Samuel’s not in the office, sir.”
“Bah!” ejaculated his employer; and Pringle made his escape.
Ten minutes later Sam entered the place, and the clerk whispered to him sharply —
“Gov’nor wants you, sir. Awful temper, sir.”
“Oh, is he?” said Sam sullenly. And then to himself – “I’m not going to take any of his nonsense, so I tell him.”
Pulling down his cuffs, and looking very pugnacious, he entered the private room ready to repel an attack, but to his surprise, his father, who the minute before had been seated looking very irresolute, now became very determined, and pointed to a chair.
“Sit down, my boy,” he said in a low voice.
Sam felt relieved, and he drew forward a chair.
“Sam, my boy,” continued James Brandon, “I’m in terrible trouble.”
“What about, father – money?” James Brandon nodded.
“I’ve been too hasty, my boy. I was very ill, and I did what I should not have done in calmer moments.”
There was a pause, and Sam waited, wondering what was to come next.
“You remember my sending for your cousin to come up?”
“Yes, father; you sent me away on business,” said Sam, in rather a sneering tone, “so as to get me out of the way, but I heard all about it afterwards.”
“All about it?” said his father, with an anxious look.
“I suppose so,” replied Sam carelessly.
“No, my boy, you did not,” said his father, leaning forward and taking his son by the coat as he spoke in a very low voice. “The fact is, Sam, while I was ill and low-spirited I got a number of curious fancies into my head – half-delirious, I suppose – about some deeds and documents left in my charge by your aunt, Tom Blount’s mother, when she died.”
“Yes?” said Sam, growing interested now.
“I fancied somehow, my boy, that it was my duty to give those deeds up to your cousin; and though I fought against it for some time, the idea grew too strong for me, and I felt that I must send for him and give them over into his charge.”
“Were they his by rights, father?” said Sam sharply.
“They were given into my charge, my boy,” replied his father evasively, “and I behaved very weakly and foolishly in giving them up to your cousin.”
“Then you did give them up to Tom that day?”
“Yes, Sam, and it is a very troublesome matter. I tell you, I did not know what I was about then, and it will affect you very seriously by and by, if I don’t get them back.”
“You mean in money matters, father?” said Sam sharply.
“Yes; affect me now heavily, and you by and by.”
“Get them back then at once,” said Sam – the young lawyer giving the elder advice.
“Yes, Sam, my boy, that’s what I want to do, but how?”
“Write and tell young Tom to bring them up.”
James Brandon shook his head.
“No use – no use, my boy. I must have said a great many foolish things to the lad that day.”
“But you must get the papers or whatever they are back again, father,” cried Sam, who was now growing excited. “You’ll have to go down there yourself.”
“Impossible; but I have made up my mind to send you to try and get them.”
“And suppose I did, father?”
“Suppose you did? Why then, my boy, I could – I mean we could laugh at them, treat anything that was said with contempt. Do you hear? With contempt.”
“Stop a bit,” said Sam quietly. “You always told me to be cautious in business matters, and that I was to keep one foot down firmly till I found a safe place for the other.”
“Of course, my lad, of course.”
“Well, suppose I go down to that country bumpkin’s place?”
“Yes, if you went down you would find out where the papers were kept,” said James Brandon eagerly.
“And if I did?”
“You could bring them away. The boy’s too stupid to take very great care of them.”
“But suppose he has given them to Uncle Richard?”
“Pish! what then? Your uncle would only pitch them into a drawer, and go away to forget them, and dream about the moon. You could go down on a visit, find out where they are, and bring them away.”
“I say, dad,” said Sam, with a sneer, “isn’t that very much like stealing?”
“No, no, no, no,” cried his father quickly; “only getting back some documents left in my charge – papers which I gave up during a severe illness, when I did not know what I was about. You understand?”
“Oh yes, father, I understand, but it looks ugly.”
“It would look uglier for you to be left almost without a penny, Sam, and your cousin to be well off.”
“Ye-es,” said Sam quietly, as he stood with his brows knit; “that would be ugly, dad.”
“Then you will go?”
“Perhaps. That depends. Not as you propose. They’d miss the papers, and I should get the credit of having taken them.”
James Brandon stared at his son in surprise, forgetting the fact that he had been training and moulding him for years to become a self-satisfied, selfish man, with only one idea, that of taking care of himself, no matter who suffered.
“He’s growing a sharp one,” thought the father, half gratified, half annoyed. Then aloud —
“Oh no, Sam, I don’t think that.”
“You don’t want to think that, father,” said Sam, drawing himself up importantly.
“Oh yes, my boy,” said James Brandon. “I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“No, father, of course not; it would be getting you into a scrape as well. Look here, suppose I slip down and get the deeds without being seen – without any one being a bit the wiser?”
James Brandon shook his head.
“Oh, I don’t want the job,” said Sam coolly.
His father was silent for a few moments, and Sam took out a knife, threw himself back in his chair, and began to trim his nails.
“But look here, Sam,” said James Brandon at last, and he seemed to be in a nervous, excited state. “It is of vital importance to me that I should have those papers.”
“Then if I were you I should go down and get them, father,” said Sam coolly.
“But that is impossible, my boy. Come, you will do that for me?”
“I don’t see why I should,” replied Sam; “you don’t make things very pleasant for me.”
“But I will, my boy, I will do anything you like; and don’t you understand how important it is for you?”
“Yes, I begin to see,” said Sam coolly. “You’ve got yourself into a scrape, father, over some of young Tom Blount’s affairs, and you want to make cat’s-paws of me.”
“No, sir,” cried his father angrily.
“Oh, but you do.”
“I do want you to help me get those – those – ”
“Chestnuts,” said Sam, with a grin.
“Well, call them that if you like, my boy,” said his father, trying to be jocose, but looking ghastly pale the while, and with the perspiration standing in tiny drops upon his forehead. “But you must help me, Sam. The money will all be yours by and by.”
Sam sat back staring straight before him in silence for a few minutes, while his father watched him intently.
“Well, I don’t want you to get into trouble, father,” he said at last. “You don’t open out to me frankly, but I can see as far into a millstone as most people. I’m not quite a fool.”
“No, my boy, no,” said James Brandon eagerly. “I’m delighted to find what a sharp man of business you are growing.”
“But you never made yourself hoarse by telling me so, dad,” said Sam, with a grin.
“Because I did not want to make you conceited, my dear boy,” cried the father. “Then you will help me?”
“The money’s no temptation to me, father,” said Sam loftily.
“But it will be very useful to you by and by, my boy. Surely you don’t want that ill-conditioned cub to inherit it.”
“Of course I don’t,” said Sam. “There, all right, I’ll go and get them for you somehow, but if there’s any rumpus afterward you’ll have to stand the racket, for I shan’t. I shall say you sent me.”
“Of course, my boy, of course. But you are too clever to make any mistake over the business, and – and you are beginning to be a great help to me, Sam. The time’s getting on now towards when we must begin to think of your being a junior partner. Only about three or four years, Sam. – Then you will go down at once?”
“You leave that to me,” said Sam importantly. “But I must have some money.”
“Yes, my boy, of course. Half-a-sovereign will be plenty, I suppose?”
“No, you don’t,” said Sam, with a look full of contempt at the shrunken, degraded man before him, who was receiving the punishment already of his misdeeds, and suffering more keenly than from any which could have been inflicted by the law.
“But how much do you want, my boy?” he faltered – “fifteen shillings?”
“I want two pounds,” said Sam coolly, “to pay my expenses. Perhaps I shall have to give some blackguard half-a-sovereign to get the papers for me, and if I come back with them all right, you’ll have to give me five pounds.”
“Five pounds!” gasped his father.
“Yes, dad; and if you make so much fuss about it I shan’t go unless you give me ten pounds.”
James Brandon looked in a ghastly way, which made his sickly face seem agonised, and he slowly drew out his purse and handed his son the money.
“When will you start?” he said.
“Now, directly,” said Sam, rising from his chair; and his father’s countenance brightened.
“Hah!” he exclaimed, “that’s very prompt and business-like of you, Sam. You’ll be careful though.” And he whispered some instructions.
“You leave me alone for that, dad,” said Sam. “I know what I’m about.”
As he spoke he rose quickly from his chair, gave his father a short nod, and opened the door, to find himself face to face with Pringle, whose hand was raised.
“Oh!” cried the clerk, starting. “Beg pardon, sir, I was just going to knock.”
“What is it?” cried James Brandon angrily, and turning pale in dread lest the clerk should have heard anything which had passed.
“These deeds, sir – finished the copying,” said the man quietly, and with a look of surprise that his employer should have asked him what he wanted.
“Oh yes; put them down,” said Brandon hastily.
“What shall I go on with next?”
“The letters I told you about last night.”
“Cert’ny, sir, of course,” said Pringle; and he hurried out of the room, leaving father and son staring at each other across the table.
“Think he heard, Sam?” said James Brandon, looking more ghastly than ever.
“No, not he. Couldn’t have heard more than a word or two. He daren’t listen.”
“Think not, Sam?”
“Sure of it, dad. There, I’ll be off now.”
“Yes, do; and pray be careful. One moment, Sam: your uncle is not out with you?”
“Which means he is with you,” said Sam, smiling.
“Yes, my boy, a little. We don’t quite agree about – about a little matter; but he would be friendly to you. So don’t you think you had better go down as a visitor?”
“No, father, I don’t,” said Sam shortly; and he went out at once.
“Gov’nor must have made a terrible mess of it, or he wouldn’t be in such a stew,” said Sam to himself, as he went thoughtfully away, and came to the conclusion that the best thing he could do would be to have a mouthful of something.
The mouthful took the form of a good dinner at a restaurant, and over this he sat thinking out his proceedings in a very cool, matter-of-fact way, till he thought it was time to make a commencement, when he summoned the waiter, and asked for the railway time-table. Then, after picking out a suitable train, he paid his bill with one of his father’s sovereigns, called a cab, and had himself driven to the terminus, where he took his ticket for the station beyond Furzebrough Road, and soon after was on his way down into the wild part of Surrey.
