The Vast Abyss

“Won’t you stop for a bit, and chat with Sam?” said Uncle Richard.

“Eh? Yes, if you like,” said his brother, hanging upon him feebly. “But it doesn’t much matter now.”

“Oh yes, it does, Jem, a good deal. Here, Sam, my lad, try and cheer your father up with what news you have of his business.”

“All right, uncle; but I say, you’ve got a pretty place here.”

“Glad you like it, my lad.”

“But I say, uncle, I haven’t had my breakfast. Started off so early.”

“I dare say something is being got ready for you,” replied his uncle, smiling. “My housekeeper is very thoughtful.”

Click! came from through the dining-room window.

“That sounds very much like the coffee-pot lid,” continued Uncle Richard. “Take your cousin in, Tom. I’ll lead your uncle round the garden while Sam has his breakfast, and then they can have their chat.”

“I couldn’t do it, Dick – I couldn’t do it,” groaned his brother piteously. “I’m as feeble as a babe.”

“Then the fresh air will strengthen you,” said Uncle Richard; and moaning softly as he drew his breath, James Brandon went slowly down the gravel walk.

“Only does that moaning noise when he thinks about it,” said Sam, as he entered the house.

“No, I’ve noticed that,” replied Tom; but all the same he felt annoyed by his cousin’s brutal indifference. “Let me take your hat.”

“No, thanks. Hang it up myself. Don’t want it spoiled.”

Tom drew back while the hat and cane were deposited in their places; and then the pair entered the little dining-room, where a luncheon tray was already placed at one end of the table, but with coffee-pot and bread-and-butter just being arranged by Mrs Fidler.

“Ah, that’s your sort,” said Sam; “but I say, old lady, I’m peckish; haven’t you got anything beside this?”

“Some ham is being fried, sir, and some eggs boiled,” said Mrs Fidler rather stiffly.

“Hah! that’s better,” said Sam; and Mrs Fidler left the room. “Well, young fellow, how are you getting on?” he continued, as he seated himself and began upon the breakfast. “What do you do here – clean the knives and boots?”

“No,” said Tom.

“I thought you did. Hands look grubby enough.”

Tom glanced at his hands, and saw that they were as rough and red as his cousin’s were white and delicate.

“I help uncle do all sorts of things,” he said quietly, “and sometimes I garden.”

“And wish yourself back at Mornington Crescent, I’ll bet tuppence.”

“I haven’t yet,” said Tom bluntly.

“No; you always were an ungrateful beggar,” said Sam in a contemptuous tone. “But that’s about all you were fit for – sort of gardener’s boy.”

Tom felt a curious sensation tingling in his veins, and his head was hot, for times had altered now, and he was not quite the same lad as the one who had submitted to be tyrannised over in town. He was about to utter some angry retort, but he checked himself.

“I won’t quarrel with him,” he said to himself; and just then Mrs Fidler appeared with a covered dish, which she placed before the visitor.

“Thankye,” he said shortly. “Take the cover away with you.”

There was always a line or two – anxious-looking lines – upon Mrs Fidler’s forehead; now five or six appeared, and her eyebrows suddenly grew closer together, and her lips tightened into a thin line, as she took off the cover, and then went in a very dignified way from the room.

Sam attacked the ham and eggs directly, and made a very hearty meal, throwing a word or two now and then at his cousin, and asking a few questions, but in an offhand, assumed, man-about-town style, and without so much as glancing at Tom, who sat watching him till he had finished his breakfast, when he rose, cleared his voice, rang the bell, brushed a few crumbs from his clothes, and took out a cigarette case.

“There!” he said; “I’ll join them down the garden now. Which is the way?”

“I’ll take you,” said Tom; and just as Mrs Fidler entered, followed by the maid to clear away, Sam struck a wax-match, lit his cigarette, and walked out into the little hall and out into the porch, followed by Tom.

“Not a bad part of the country,” said Sam condescendingly; “but who does uncle find to talk to? Precious few decent houses.”

“There are plenty,” said Tom; “but they are a good way off. There’s uncle at the bottom of the field.”

“So I see,” said Sam. “I have eyes in my head. Humph! flowers. Halloo! raspberries!”

He stepped off the green path they were on to where several rows of neatly-tied-up raspberry canes crossed the garden, and began to pull the ruddy thimbles off the tiny white cones upon which they grew; while David, who was on the other side busy removing young pear-tree shoots from the wall, stared at him aghast.

“Who’s that fellow?” said Sam, as he took a whiff, then a raspberry, alternately.

“Our gardener.”

“Our, eh? Well, tell him to go on with his work. What’s he staring at?”

“You,” said Tom bluntly.

Sam gave him a sharp look and returned to the path, bore off to his right, and began to examine the trained fruit trees on the wall.

“Pears, peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums,” said Sam coolly. “Why, they’re all green and unripe. No, they’re not; here’s an apricot looks ready.”

David uttered a gasp, for the young visitor stepped on to the neat border and took hold of the yellow apricot, whose progress the gardener had been watching for days, gave it a tug, and broke off the twig which bore it.

“Bah!” he ejaculated, as he dragged away the twig and a wall-nail and shred. “Why, the wretched thing isn’t ripe.”

He spat out the mouthful he had taken between his lips, and jerked the bitten fruit out over the hedge into the lane.

“Well,” muttered David, as the two lads went on, “I do call that imperdence. Wonder what master would ha’ said if he’d seen.”

“Master” had seen his nephew’s act as he came from the other side of the field with his brother leaning upon his arm, but he made no remark respecting it.

“You would like to have a chat now with your boy about business, eh, James?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to talk about,” said Sam carelessly. “Everything is all right. I have seen to that. I kept Pringle pretty well up to his work.”

“Poor old Pringle!” thought Tom. “I ought to write to him.”