The Vast Abyss

The Vicar coughed again to get rid of an unpleasant huskiness, and then, as if with an effort —

“The fact is, Thomas Blount, I am glad he is not here, for I wish to say a few words to you seriously. I did mean to speak to him, but this is better. It shall be a matter of privacy between us, and I ask you, my boy, to treat me not as your censor but as your friend – one who wishes you well.”

“Yes, sir, of course. Thank you, sir, I will,” said Tom, who felt puzzled, and grew more and more uncomfortable as he wondered what it could all mean, and finally, as the Vicar remained silent, concluded that it must be something to do with his behaviour in church. Then no, it could not be that, for he could find no cause of offence.

“I know,” thought Tom suddenly. “He wants me to go and read with him, Latin and Greek, I suppose, or mathematics.”

The Vicar coughed again, and looked so hard at Tom that the boy felt still more uncomfortable, and hurriedly began to pull down his rolled-up shirt-sleeves and to button his cuffs.

“Don’t do that, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, still more huskily; “there is nothing to be ashamed of in honest manual labour.”

“No, sir, of course not,” said the lad, still more uncomfortable, for it was very unpleasant to be addressed as “Thomas Blount,” in that formal way.

“I often regret,” said the Vicar, “that I have so few opportunities for genuine hard muscular work, and admire your uncle for the way in which he plunges into labour of different kinds. For such work is purifying, Thomas Blount, and ennobling.”

This was all very strange, and seemed like the beginning of a lecture, but Tom felt better, and he liked the Vicar – at least at other times, but not now.

“Will you be honest with me, my lad?” said the visitor at last.

“Oh yes, sir,” was the reply, for “my lad” sounded so much better than formal Thomas Blount.

“That’s right. Ahem!”

Another cough. A pause, and Tom coloured a little more beneath the searching gaze that met his.

“Were you out last night?” came at last, to break a most embarrassing silence.

“Yes, sir.”

“Out late?”

“Yes, sir; quite late.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the Vicar, who looked now very hard and stern. “One moment – would you mind lending me your knife?”

“My knife!” faltered Tom, astounded at such a request; and then, in a quick, hurried way – “I’m so sorry, sir, I cannot. I was looking for it just now, but I’ve lost it.”

“Lost it? Dear me! Was it a valuable knife?”

“Oh no, sir, only an old one, with the small blade broken.”

“Would you mind describing it to me?”

“Describing it, sir? Of course not. It had a big pointed blade, and a black and white bone handle.”

“And the small blade broken, you say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had it any other mark by which you would know it? Knives with small blades broken are very general.”

“No, sir, no other mark. Oh yes, it had. I filed a T and a B in it one day, but it was very badly done.”

“Very, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, taking something from his breast-pocket. “Is that your knife?”

“Yes,” cried Tom eagerly, “that’s it! Where did you find it, sir? I know; you must have taken it off that bench by mistake when uncle showed you round.”

“No, Thomas Blount,” said the Vicar, shaking his head, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the lad; “I found it this morning in my garden.”

“You couldn’t, sir,” cried Tom bluntly. “How could it get there?”

The Vicar gazed at him without replying, and Tom added hastily —

“I beg your pardon, sir. I meant that it is impossible.”

“The knife asserts that it is possible, sir. Take it. A few pence would have bought those plums.”

The hand Tom had extended dropped to his side.

“What plums, sir?” he said, feeling more and more puzzled.

“Bah! I detest pitiful prevarication, sir,” cried the Vicar warmly. “The knife was dropped by whoever it was stripped the wall of my golden drops last night. There, take your knife, sir, I have altered my intentions. I did mean to speak to your uncle.”

“What about?” said Uncle Richard, who had come up unheard in the excitement. “Good-morning, Maxted. Any one’s cow dead? Subscription wanted?”

“Oh no,” said the Vicar. “It must out now. I suppose some one’s honour has gone a little astray.”

“Then we must fetch it back. Whose? Not yours, Tom?”

“I don’t know, uncle,” said the boy, with his forehead all wrinkled up. “Yes, I do. Mr Maxted thinks I went to his garden last night to steal plums. Tell him I didn’t, uncle, please.”

“Tell him yourself, Tom.”

“I can’t,” said Tom bluntly, and a curiously stubborn look came over his countenance. Then angrily – “Mr Maxted oughtn’t to think I’d do such a thing.”

The Vicar compressed his lips and wrinkled up his forehead.

“Well, I can,” said Uncle Richard. “No, Maxted, he couldn’t have stolen your plums, because he was out quite late stealing pears – the other way on.”

“Uncle!” cried Tom, as the Vicar now looked puzzled.

“We apprehended a visit from a fruit burglar, and Tom here and my gardener were watching, but he did not come. Then he visited you instead?”

“Yes, and dropped this knife on the bed beneath the wall.”

“Let me look,” said Uncle Richard. “Why, that’s your knife, Tom.”

“Yes, uncle.”