The Vast Abyss

She uttered the last words triumphantly, for the woman turned and ran hurriedly into her cottage.

“Come along, Tom,” said Uncle Richard; “we are doing no good here;” and he turned and led the way down toward the gate, with the old woman shrieking out a torrent of words after them, and playing an accompaniment formed of slaps upon the door till they were out of hearing.

“What a terrible old woman!” said Tom at last. “That Mrs Deane seemed quite frightened of her.”

“Yes; the poor ignorant people here believe that she has the power to do them harm; and in spite of all Mr Maxted tells them, he cannot shake their faith.”

“What shall you do now, uncle?”

“Nothing, my boy, upon second thoughts. I am afraid we should not be able to prove that this young scoundrel did the mischief without calling in the police, and that I am very loth to do.”

“But he ought not to be allowed to go about doing such things as that, uncle,” said Tom warmly. “It gets the wrong people suspected.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Richard dryly; “and perhaps we are suspecting the wrong person now.”

“But who else could it be, uncle?”

“Some tramp perhaps, on the way to London. No, Tom, I don’t think we will waste our time in trying to bring the misdoing home to Mr Pete Warboys, and then appearing before the magistrates to punish him. We had better set to work and polish a new speculum.”

“Then you will make another?” said Tom eagerly.

“Of course, my boy. I shall write off for two fresh discs to-night.”

“One will do, uncle.”

“No, boy; we must have two, and begin as before. The lower one is useless now, unless I keep it for a polishing tool.”

Chapter Twenty

“Master Tom, I’d be the last person in the world to find fault, or pick people to pieces, and I’m sure master knows that, as it’s his brother, I’d do anything; but really, my dear, I don’t think he’s so bad as he says.”

“Do you think not, Mrs Fidler?”

“I feel sure not, my dear. Here has he been down here for three weeks now, and the nursing up he’s had is wonderful. You look at the beef-tea he’s had, and the calves’-foot jelly I’ve made, and the port wine he has drunk, let alone the soles and chickens and chops he has every day.”

“But what makes you think Uncle James is not so ill?”

“Because he eats and drinks so much, my dear. I think he’s all right, only got something on his mind.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Tom. “He says he’s very bad. I must be off now; it’s time he went out in his bath-chair.”

“Yes, my dear, it’s wonderful what your uncle does for him, what with the flys, and pony-carriages, and the invalid chair got down on purpose for him. I only wish I had such a brother as master.”

For Uncle James had come down ready to groan when he was helped out of the fly, to sigh when he was helped off to bed, and call out when Tom led him to his chair at meal-times. For as soon as he came down he had attached himself to his nephew, and was never satisfied without the boy was at his side.

“Your noo uncle seems to like you, Master Tom,” said David one day.

“Yes; I wish he wouldn’t be quite so fond of me,” replied Tom. “He used not to be in London.”

But Tom’s wishes were of no avail, for his uncle would hardly let him quit his side; and when they were indoors he would sit and gaze wistfully at the boy, and now and then whisper —

“Tom, my boy, I think I ought to tell you, that – ”

Then he would stop, and, growing impatient at last, Tom broke out with —

“What is it, uncle, that you want to tell me?”

“Not now, my boy, another time, another time,” and then he would utter a low groan.

This sort of thing took place in the dining-room, study, garden, or away out on the common, or in sandy lanes; and at last, after having his curiosity excited a great many times, Tom began to get tired of it, and had hard work to keep from some pettish remark.

“But I mustn’t be unkind to him, poor fellow, now he’s so ill,” thought Tom; “he was very unkind to me, but I forgive him, and he’s very affectionate to me now.”

This was the case, for Uncle James seemed happier when he could get Tom alone, and hold his hand for some time; and he always ended by saying in a whimpering voice —

“Bless you, my boy, bless you!”

“Which is very nice,” said Tom to himself more than once, “but it will sound sickly, and as if he was very weak. I can’t make it out. It seems as if the worse he is, the kinder he gets to me, and as soon as he feels better he turns disagreeable. Oh, I am so tired of it; I wish he’d get well.”

But all the same Tom never showed his weariness, but tugged and butted the invalid chair through the deep sand of the lanes, and sat on banks close by it reading the newspaper to his uncle in the most patient way, till the invalid was tired, and then dragged him back to Heatherleigh to dinner or tea.

One evening, after a week thoroughly devoted to the visitor, who had been more than usually exacting in the length of his rides, declining to hold the handle and guide himself, making Tom tug him up hills and through heavy bits of lane, along which the boy toiled away as stubbornly as a donkey, Uncle Richard came upon him in the garden, when he was free, for the invalid had gone to lie down.

“Well, Tom,” he said.

“Well, uncle,” cried the boy, looking up at him rather disconsolately.

“All our telescope-making seems to have come to an end.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“I suppose you mean to go back with Uncle James to town?”

“Is he going back to London?” cried the boy eagerly.

“Yes, before long; but you need not be so eager to go.”

Tom stared at him.

“You are tired of Heatherleigh then?”

“Tired, uncle?”

“Yes; you’ve made me feel quite jealous. It’s all Uncle James now. But there, it’s boy-like to want plenty of change.”

“But I don’t want change.”

“Not want change? Why, you show it every day.”