Читать книгу Uncle Stephen - Forrest Reid - Страница 7

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The first part of his journey had been accomplished with comparative celerity, but there had been a long wait at the end of it, and now, on the branch line, the ancient train puffed and panted asthmatically through the summer fields as if quite unused to such violent exercise. There were many small stations, and at each the engine stopped to take breath. Then, with an indignant scream, it would jerk on again, till finally it came to rest where there was no station at all.

Tom, sitting upright on the hard, straight-backed, unupholstered seat of what was little more luxurious than a cattle-truck, with his brown-paper parcel beside him, was neither surprised nor annoyed by the delay. The mood of elation, or at least of expectant excitement, in which he had started, was fast ebbing. He had begun to feel nervous, as well as hot and thirsty, but he was in no hurry to reach his journey’s end. He was tired of looking out of the window, he had neither book nor paper—nothing indeed to read except the inscriptions pencilled on the opposite wall of the carriage, and which were of three kinds—religious, political, and improper—though occasionally all three were blended in a single sentence. He wondered why such inscriptions were always the same. Even the prurient impulse seemed incapable of anything but monotonous repetition, and the feeble attempts at illustration were still more narrowly limited. He studied the countenance of his only fellow-traveller, a young clergyman who was absorbed in a crossword puzzle. He, too, had a parcel, obviously a tennis-racket, on the shop label attached to which was typed Rev. Charles Quintin Knox. Tom was interested in names. It seemed to him that people were always like their names. They must grow like them, because of course you weren’t born Percy or Sam or Jim or Alfred. If he ever had children of his own he would be very careful what names he gave them. What would Charles Quintin Knox be like? Rather standoffish, rather English public-schoolish, with cold light blue eyes that betrayed not the slightest desire to make your acquaintance. Tom was certain this analysis was not merely the result of his impression of the young man in the opposite corner, though it accorded with it. Would Charles Quintin Knox be good at games? He could tell from this young parson’s eyes that he was good at games, just as anybody could have told from Eric’s and Leonard’s. Perhaps it was only when you were exceptionally good that your eyes had that particular clearness of vision. But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouted questions, and he leaned out of the window to learn the cause of the commotion. From all the other windows people were leaning out, and to his surprise he saw what must be either the engine-driver or the stoker seated on the embankment, lighting a cigarette. Tom had taken the stopping of the train in this secluded spot to be a part of the ordinary procedure, but it now looked otherwise, and it was apparently the detached and leisurely attitude of the cigarette smoker that had excited expostulation.

A grimy oil-smeared person in stained blue overalls came walking down on the sleepers. ‘There’s no use talking,’ he announced in good-naturedly bellicose tones. ‘The front’s dropped out of her, and ye’ll either have to get out and walk or wait till another engine comes. Jimmy’s away to telephone, and God knows how long he’ll be.’

‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’ Tom’s parson had dropped his newspaper and was leaning out over Tom’s shoulder.

The man in overalls recognized an acquaintance of a superior order. ‘It’s the engine, Mr. Knox.’ He squirted a thin jet of tobacco juice in a delicate parabola, and with a black hand wiped away the sweat trickling down his forehead. ‘Sure it was only a matter of time anyway: it’s not our fault.’

Mr. Knox rejected the excuse. ‘The engine ought to have been examined,’ he said. ‘There must have been carelessness somewhere.’

‘Ah well, you know yourself, Mr. Knox, the less examining you do on this line the happier you’ll be.’

Tom laughed, whereupon the man in overalls winked at him and Mr. Knox withdrew.

The man in overalls, after further expectoration, now addressed himself directly to Tom, as the only person who seemed capable of accepting an accident in the proper spirit. ‘It’ll be above an hour likely before they get another engine,’ he said. ‘If you’re only wanting the next station it would maybe answer you better to walk it: it’s not above a mile.’

‘I’m going to Kilbarron,’ Tom said.

‘Ah well then, you’d have a goodish step, and it’s a warm day.... But sure it’s a lovely view you have there from the window, and his reverence for company.’

Whether this hint was sincere or not, it produced an effect. The young clergyman addressed Tom for the first time since he had entered the train. ‘I’m going to Kilbarron too,’ he said, rather stiffly.

‘How far is it, sir?’ Tom asked.

‘About five miles.’

Tom considered whether he should risk the walk. It was a perfect evening, and though the sun still shone and the air was windless the heat of the day had abated. On the other hand he had never been in this part of the world before and was not very good at following directions.

‘I’ll walk if you will,’ he said—a suggestion which appeared to surprise rather than charm Mr. Knox. He answered briefly that he intended remaining where he was.

‘I knew he was particular,’ thought Tom. ‘Charles Quintin Knox.... And he’s got an accent, too.’

He guessed that his own appearance must be grubby in the extreme: it often was: and to settle the question he wet the corner of his handkerchief and drew it down his cheek. The handkerchief had not been clean to begin with, but on the conclusion of this experiment it was distinctly dirtier. The aristocratic Mr. Knox watched the performance with an air of aloofness.

‘I’ve been in the train most of the afternoon,’ Tom explained. ‘I was quite clean when I started.’

Mr. Knox nodded. ‘It’s always a dusty business travelling, especially at this time of year and with the windows open.’ He again took up his paper and pencil so that Tom could not very well interrupt him by further conversation.

He wanted to: he wanted to ask questions about Kilbarron—questions which must lead eventually to Uncle Stephen. Mr. Knox must know Uncle Stephen. Unfortunately he remained absorbed in his puzzle, occasionally filling in a blank—rather tentatively as Tom could see—but more often chewing the end of his pencil.

Tom re-examined the inscriptions and had another look out of the window, but nothing was altered except that now several of the male passengers were on the railway line conversing in more or less injured tones. Their remarks were uninteresting and their suggestions to the guard futile. Tom took off his cap and rubbed an inquiring finger softly over the top of his head. The result was worse than he had expected. Jane had made a mess of it! There was a whole patch near the crown of his head that felt quite smooth. It was well she hadn’t done it till after dinner or his step-mother would have been sure to notice. But she must have made an awful mark! Suddenly he became conscious that the young clergyman’s eyes were fixed on him over the top of his newspaper. Tom blushed and hastily put on his cap. ‘Now he very likely imagines I’ve got ringworm,’ he thought. ‘He’ll be changing into another carriage.’

He decided to explain once more—this time that he was free from contagious diseases. ‘My sister cut my hair,’ he said. ‘At least, she’s not really my sister. I expect it’s pretty awful. I was in such a hurry I hadn’t time to look at it, but she told me it was all right.’ He hoped Mr. Knox would confirm this view, but Mr. Knox remained dumb. He consulted a gold watch, and then produced a pipe, which he filled and lighted. Tom after a brief hesitation produced a crushed packet of cigarettes.

They smoked in silence.

‘You’re not a scout, are you?’ asked Mr. Knox suddenly.

‘No,’ said Tom.

‘I thought not.’

Tom felt snubbed. But if this parson believed scouts never smoked he must be jolly innocent. He felt inclined to tell him so. His cigarette wasn’t half finished, and he had only three more, but he chucked it out of the window.

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Mr. Knox.

Tom was embarrassed. ‘I thought you didn’t like to see me,’ he said.

Mr. Knox puffed for a minute or two without speaking. Then he removed his pipe from his mouth. ‘I rather fancied that was the reason. It was an uncommonly gentlemanly thing to do. If ever you should think of becoming a scout I’d like to have you in my troop. But I don’t expect you belong to these parts.’

‘No,’ Tom murmured, his embarrassment increased by Mr. Knox’s approval. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

‘And you’re coming on a visit to Kilbarron? I wonder if I know your name—your surname, I mean—I think I know nearly everybody in this neighbourhood.’

‘My name is Thomas Barber.’

‘Then I’m afraid I don’t know you. Thomas, is it, or Tom?’

‘Tom.’

‘My name is Knox. But perhaps I know the people you are going to stay with.’

‘I’m going to stay with Unc—with Mr. Stephen Collet.’

The effect of this was delightful. It caused Mr. Knox to look at him with a vastly increased interest. In fact, he seemed more than interested.

‘You see I’m his nephew,’ Tom went on. ‘Or at least I’m his grand-nephew. But he doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t know I’m coming. He was mother’s uncle, and when father died I thought I’d come to him. I haven’t written or anything. I told you I was going to stay with him, but I shouldn’t really have said so, because I don’t know yet. He mayn’t let me stay: he mayn’t even believe I am his nephew.’

Tom poured out this information in an uninterrupted stream, which ceased abruptly, leaving Mr. Knox looking more surprised than ever.

‘But—— You mean you’ve run away from home—is that it? Or is it that you now have no home?’

‘I ran away from my step-mother’s.... She’s quite decent,’ he hastily added. ‘You mustn’t think there was anything—any cause. It was just because—Uncle Stephen belonged to mother.’ The last words came in so low a voice that they could barely have reached his companion.

That they had reached him, however, was apparent in his own altered tone when he replied, ‘I understand.’ After which he paused, and Tom read in his face a genuine kindness. Indeed he could hardly have believed it was the same Mr. Knox whom he had watched doing crosswords, who had rebuked the engine-driver, and who had rejected the invitation to walk to Kilbarron. ‘I have only spoken to Mr. Collet once,’ this new Mr. Knox went on, ‘but I think it very likely he will understand too.’

‘Then you do know him?’ said Tom, a little wistfully.

Mr. Knox hesitated, but finally, and as if reluctantly, shook his head. ‘There’s no use pretending. Of course, I have only been at Kilbarron a little over a year, but I don’t think that makes much difference: I don’t think anybody knows Mr. Collet. I don’t think anybody has been given the chance. Ever since he came to the Manor House—or at least so I have been told—he has kept entirely to himself.... A recluse.’

Tom recalled Uncle Horace’s similar description. ‘But if he is—so reclusive as all that——’ he pondered doubtfully.

Mr. Knox had a further pause. Then he seemed to make up his mind. ‘Not a bit of it,’ he replied briskly. ‘And you won’t find him really an old man either. His eyes are as young as yours. They’re very remarkable eyes—very deep and blue and clear—extraordinary.... I won’t say that some boys mightn’t be a little afraid of him at first (he doesn’t look, and he isn’t dressed quite like other people), but I’ve a notion you won’t be. I rather imagine he’s the very uncle for you, or, if you think it should be put the other way, that you’re the very nephew for him.’

Tom turned to the deepening glow of sunset. ‘I’m glad you like him,’ he said softly.

There was just the faintest, faintest stressing of the ‘you’, but Mr. Knox looked pleased. ‘Ah,’ he as softly replied, ‘you are his nephew.’ And then, as Tom’s gaze fixed itself on him in a kind of questioning muteness. ‘Don’t bother,’ he added. ‘I did mean something, but I’m not myself sure what. At all events it had nothing to do with outward appearances, for you aren’t in the least like him to look at—even after making every allowance for all the years between you.’

‘You don’t think——’ Tom began. ‘You don’t think he’ll be angry with me?’

‘No.... And, if you should meet anybody else—I shouldn’t ask questions about him.’

Tom gazed, feeling not very sure what this meant. ‘I don’t think I understand,’ he said.

‘I mean, when you reach Kilbarron. Go straight to Mr. Collet.’

‘Of course,’ said Tom, though he was still puzzled. ‘That’s what I intended to do.’

‘Well, that’s all right then. You’ll have no difficulty in finding your way: I can put you on the road.’

‘Ought I not to have asked you questions?’ Tom said, after a longish pause in which he had been turning the matter over.

‘Yes, of course. I only meant——’ Mr. Knox, however, found it hard to express what he had meant. ‘Kilbarron is a small country town,’ he went on. ‘With two or three exceptions the inhabitants belong to the semi-educated class, and a good many of them are not even that. Among such people you usually find a good deal of narrow-mindedness and bigotry: also, I’m afraid, superstition. Quite a number of them believe in charms, and fairies, and that kind of rubbish, for instance.’

Tom had already picked up the drift of these remarks. That was why he wasn’t to ask questions. ‘You mean they don’t like Uncle Stephen?’ he said.

‘They know nothing about him. It’s enough for them that he never comes out from his own house and grounds, and that there is something in his appearance slightly unusual:—not that the vast majority of them have ever even seen him. And by the way, it’s quite possible, in fact it’s practically certain, that you’ll find Mr. Collet alone in the house. It’s a biggish place, too, with a lot of trees, and it will be dark, I dare say, when you get there——’

‘I know,’ said Tom quietly.

‘What do you know?’ Mr. Knox’s eyes were fixed earnestly on him, but it was, Tom imagined, an expression not uncommon to them. He thought Mr. Knox took things very seriously and would not easily see a joke. He was that kind; but Tom liked him.

‘I know that you think perhaps I’ll be frightened, and that you don’t want me to be, because there’s nothing really to be frightened about.’

‘There is nothing.’

‘Well, I won’t be. I mean, I won’t show it. It’s not that kind of thing I’m afraid of.’

‘What kind of thing are you afraid of?’

But Tom did not answer. He could not explain to Mr. Knox that he would be afraid of nothing so long as Uncle Stephen was really Uncle Stephen, and that if he should find he wasn’t, it wouldn’t then much matter what else he was—or matter about the house, or the darkness, or the trees, or the villagers, or anything.