The Vast Abyss

“Ah, you may laugh, David,” said Tom; “but he might have been a decent lad if he had had a chance.”

“Not he, sir. Mr Maxted tried, but it was the wrong stuff. Look here, sir, when you makes a noo specklum, what do you do it of?”

“Glass, of course.”

“Yes, sir, clear glass without any bubbles in it. You don’t take a bit of rough burnt clay; you couldn’t polish that. He’s the wrong stuff, sir. Nobody couldn’t make nothing o’ him but a drill-serjeant, and he won’t try, because Pete’s too ugly and okkard even to be food for powder and shot.”

“I don’t know,” said Tom, as he thought of the scene with the dog.

“And I do, sir. You mark my words – now Pete’s back there’s going to be games.”

But the days glided by; and Tom had so much to think of that he saw nothing of Pete Warboys’ games, and he could hardly believe it possible when summer came again.

Chapter Thirty Seven

“From your cousin,” said Uncle Richard, opening one of his letters, his face gradually growing very stern and troubled as he read; while as he finished and raised his eyes, he found that Tom was watching him intently.

“Sad news, Tom,” said his uncle, in a low, grave voice. “My brother has been better, but he has during the past week had a fresh attack, and is very bad.”

“I am very sorry, uncle,” said Tom frankly.

“Yes, you would be, Tom, as it is serious.”

Uncle Richard paused, looking very hard at his nephew. Then quietly —

“You did not get on very well with your uncle.”

“No; I was too stupid, and it made him angry, uncle.”

“Humph! Well, Tom, by-gones must of course be by-gones. Your cousin has written this letter at his father’s dictation, and here is a postscript.

“‘Father seems to be very dangerously ill, and the doctor says that he must have something upon his mind.’”

“Is it that he thinks he is more ill than he really is?” said Tom quietly; but his uncle looked up from the letter so sharply and sternly that the boy changed countenance.

“The letter does not suggest that, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, frowning. “My poor brother – ” Uncle Richard paused for a moment or two – “wishes to see me once again, he says, and – and you, my boy, on business of great importance to you and your interests. If I cannot go, he requests that you be sent up to him at once.”

“Poor uncle!” said Tom quietly. “But does he think that I ought to go back to the law, uncle?”

“Perhaps.”

“But I couldn’t, Uncle Richard, I am so stupid. I hate it. Pray, pray don’t think of letting me go. I am so happy here.”

Uncle Richard’s face relaxed a little.

“Perhaps he doesn’t mean that. He had to do with your poor father’s affairs. It may be some business connected with them.”

“What could there be, uncle?”

“Ah, that I cannot say. I was abroad at the time of his death.”

“Mother never said anything about them,” said Tom.

“Well, you must go up and see him at once.”

“Of course, uncle.”

“And I shall go with you, my boy. I hope he really is not so bad.”

“I hope he is not,” said Tom. “How soon shall you go, uncle?”

“In half-an-hour. If we sent for a fly we could only catch the one o’clock train; if we walk over to the station we can catch that at eleven. Shall we walk?”

“Yes, uncle. I’ll change my things, and be ready as soon as you.”

That afternoon they reached Mornington Crescent, to find straw laid thickly down in front of the house, and a strange feeling of depression came over Tom as they entered the silent room, to be received by his aunt, who looked white and anxious.

“I am so glad you have come, Richard,” she said eagerly. “James has been asking for you and Tom so many times.”

Just then a bell rang.

“That’s his bell to know if it is you,” said Aunt Fanny; and she hurried up-stairs, to return in a few minutes.

“Come up at once,” she said; “you first, Richard;” and she led the way up-stairs, leaving Tom seated in the drawing-room, looking about at the familiar objects, and growing more and more low-spirited, as they recalled many an unhappy hour, and his troubles at the office, and with his cousin Sam.

But he was not left there long. In a few minutes the door re-opened, and his aunt and uncle came in.

“You are to go up, Tom,” said Uncle Richard. “There is something to be communicated to you.”

“Is – is he so very ill, uncle?” said Tom, with a curious sensation of shrinking troubling him.

“He is very ill, my boy. But don’t keep him waiting.”

“Is he in his own room, aunt?” asked Tom.

“Yes, my dear. Pray go softly, he is so weak.”

Tom drew a deep breath, and went up to the next floor, tapped lightly at the bedroom door, and expecting to see a terrible object stretched upon the bed of sickness in a darkened chamber, he entered, and felt quite a shock.

For the room was bright and sunlit, the window open, and his uncle, looking very white and careworn, seated in an easy-chair, dressed, save that he wore a loose dressing-gown.

“Ah, Tom,” he said, holding out a thin hand, “at last – at last.”

Tom took the hand extended to him, and felt it clutch his tightly.

“I’m so sorry to see you so ill, uncle,” he said.

“Yes, yes, of course, boy; but don’t waste time. Let me get it over – before it is too late.”