Part 4

Mrs. Cholmondeley looked a little bewildered, and the poet patently nervous.

"Really I--"

"She's an awful good sort--Mrs. Chundle. She's the poet's housekeeper--so I expect she has to work for her living, you know."

The poet gasped.

"It's--it's all a mistake," he stammered, but not before Mrs. Cholmondeley had turned a violent purple, and a smile had travelled round the little ring of visitors.

All at once Tommy became aware that somehow things had gone wrong and retreated hastily from the lawn, seeking the refuge of the cave among the laurels, and in a minute or two, the poet, with a murmured pretext about a view, also vanished.

Tommy wandered disconsolately down the flagged path between the bushes, ruminating upon the strange contrariness of affairs on this chequered afternoon.

Near the arbour in the laurels Miss Gerald met him.

Her eyes were dancing.

"O, Tommy, you celestial boy," she cried.

Tommy was doubtful of the adjective, but the tone was certainly one of approbation, and he looked modestly at the path.

"You're a perfect young angel," proceeded Miss Gerald, enthusiastically, "and I'd kiss you only I suppose you wouldn't like it."

Tommy looked at her, dubiously.

"I shouldn't very much," he observed, but chivalry stepped manfully to the fore, and he turned a brown cheek towards her.

"You can if you like, you know," he added, looking resignedly across the valley.

She stooped and dropped a kiss upon his cheek.

"You're the very broth of a boy," she said, as she ran back to the house.

Presently the laurels rustled, and the poet stole out into the pathway.

Tommy was disappearing into a sidewalk, and the poet looked after him with a curious expression.

"O you incomprehensible person," said he.

IX

IN WHICH TOMMY CLIMBS A STILE

"You daren't climb into the hay-loft."

"Daren't I?" said Tommy, scornfully. "You see if I don't." And he shinned easily up the ladder.

The hay-loft was cool and fragrant--a welcome contrast to the glaring yard.

"Come up too," said Tommy.

Madge's black eyes flashed.

"I will," she said, clambering up the steps.

Tommy stooped down and gave her a hand.

"Good girl," he said, approvingly. Then he laid his hand on her lips, and they crouched back into the shade.

For into the barn stepped one of the farm labourers.

"We mustn't get found out, for the man here is an awful beast of a chap," said Tommy, in a low whisper.

The labourer had not perceived them and was soon bent over a machine chopping up fodder for the cattle.

His back was towards them, and he breathed heavily, for the work was hard. His red neck formed a tempting target, and Tommy was an accurate shot. Moreover, his pockets were full of peas.

He took a careful aim and let fly, and there was a hoarse exclamation from the man at the wheel.

Tommy drew back into shelter, where Madge was curled up in the new hay.

"Got him rippingly," said Tommy, "plumb in the back of the neck."

Madge looked a little reproachful.

"O Tommy, it must have hurt him dreadfully."

Tommy chuckled.

"'Spect it did tickle him a bit," he said, looking cautiously round the corner.

The man had resumed work and the hum of the wheel filled the barn.

Tommy selected another portion of the man's anatomy and let fly a little harder.

There was a shout and a sound of muttered exclamation in the barn below them, as Tommy backed into the hay with quiet enjoyment.

As they listened they could hear the man stumping round the barn, swearing softly, and presently he was joined by some one else, for a loud voice broke into his grumbling.

"What the dickens are you doing, Jake?"

"Darned if I know," said the man. "On'y there bees summat as hits I unnever I goes at the wheel, master."

"That's the farmer himself just come in," said Tommy burrowing deeper into the hay.

They could hear him speaking.

"Get on wi' your work, Jake, an' don't get talkin' your nonsense to me, man."

The man grumbled.

"Darned if it are nonsense, master," he said. "Just you wait till you be hit yoursen--right in the bark o' your neck, too."

"O Tommy, do hit him--the farmer I mean."

Tommy shook his head.

"It wouldn't do," he said.

Madge looked at him with a challenge in her eyes.

"You daren't," she whispered.

Tommy flushed.

"We should be caught."

"Oh--then you daren't?"

Tommy was silent, and the farmer's foot was heavy in the barn below.

"You daren't," repeated Madge.

Tommy looked at her, with bright eyes.

"All right," he said. "If you want to see, look round the corner, only don't let him cob you."

Then he drew back a little from the opening and took a flying shot, finding a target in one of the farmer's rather conspicuous ears.

He gave a sudden yell, and his pale eyes seemed to stand out from his head, as he looked amazedly round the building.

The man at the wheel spat into his hands, with a quiet grin.

"Darned if they ain't hit you, master," he said, grinding with some zest.

"My word, they shall pay for it," shouted the farmer, conning the situation with frowning brows.

Then he stepped to the ladder.

"See as they don't get out, Jake, if I send anyone down," he said loudly, and Jake grunted an assent.

Madge was trembling.

"O Tommy, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. Tell him it's all my fault."

"It's all right," said Tommy cheerfully, "He--he won't dare to touch me."

A pair of red cheeks appeared above the floor of the loft, and the pale eyes looked threateningly into the gloom.

In a minute they encountered Tommy's brown ones, bright and defiant.

The farmer grunted.

"Bees you there, eh?" he asked.

Tommy grinned.

"All right, you needn't get shirty," he said.

"Shirty, eh? I wunt get shirty. Don't you make no mistake. Jake!"

"Ah!"

"My stick down there?"

"Ah."

"Will you 'ave it up 'ere or down yon, young man?"

Tommy flushed hotly, and Madge held his arm.

"You daren't hit me," he said.

The farmer laughed.

"You've bin trespassin' more'n once, young man, wi' your catapult an' your sharp tongue, an' now I'm goin' to 'ave my bit. Up 'ere or down yon?"

Tommy temporized.

"Let us come down," he said, eyeing the door warily.

"Young miss, you get down first," said the farmer.

Madge obeyed with pale cheeks, and stood, half in sunlight, at the door.

"Jake!"

"Ah!"

"See the young rip don't get out."

"Ah!"

Tommy clambered down, standing between the two men. Then he made a bolt for freedom, dodging Jake's half-hearted attempt at resistance.

But the farmer held him as he recoiled from Jake and jerked him over a truss of hay.

And for the next few minutes Tommy was very uncomfortable.

"Oh, you cad, you cad, you beastly, putrid cad."

Tommy spoke between his teeth at each stroke of the farmer's stick.

The man released him in a minute or two, and Tommy rushed at him with both fists. The farmer laughed.

"Guess you won't come knockin' about this barn again in a hurry," he said as he pushed him easily into the yard and closed the great door with a thud.

For a moment Tommy stood, white with anger. Then he thought of Madge, who had been a spectator of the tragedy. But she was nowhere to be seen, and he walked gloomily down the lane.

Now Madge, with a beating heart and a stricken conscience, had fled for help, running blindly down the lane, with the idea of securing the first ally who should appear.

And she almost ran into the arms of the pale boy from the Grange.

"Hullo, what's the matter?" he asked, looking at Madge curiously.

Madge blurted out the story, with eager eyes.

'Could he help her? Was there anybody near who could save Tommy from a probable and violent death?'

The pale boy looked at her admiringly, as he considered the question.

Then,

"My father knows the man--he owes my father some money, I think. I'll see if I can do anything."

They ran down the lane together, and doing so encountered Tommy, flushed and ruffled.

"O, Tommy"--Madge began, but stopped suddenly, at the look on Tommy's face.

For to Tommy this seemed the lowest depth of his degradation, that the pale boy should be a witness of his discomfiture.

He looked at them angrily, and then, turning on his heel, struck out across the fields, the iron entering deeply into his soul.

Youth is imitative, and Tommy had often heard the phrase.

"I--I don't care a damn," he said.

For a moment he felt half-frightened, but the birds were still singing in the hedge, and, in the next field, the reapers still chattered gaily at their work.

Moreover, the phrase seemed both consolatory and emphatic.

"I don't care a damn," he repeated, slowly, climbing the stile, into the next field.

Said a voice from behind the hedge:

"Girl in it?"

Tommy looked round, and encountered a tall young man in tweeds. He was looking at him, with amused eyes.

"I--I don't know what you mean," said Tommy.

The young man laughed.

"They're the devil, girls are," he observed.

Tommy was puzzled and eyed the stranger cautiously, thinking him the handsomest man he had seen.

Nor, in a way, was he at fault, for the young man was straight, and tall, and comely.

But there was something in the eyes--a lack of honest lustre--and in the lips--too sensuous for true manliness, that would have warned Tommy, had he been older, or even in a different frame of mind. Just now, however, a friend was welcome, and Tommy told his tale, as they strolled through the fields together.

Presently,

"You belong to Camslove Grange, don't you?" asked the stranger.

"I did."

"And will again, I suppose, eh?"

Tommy looked doubtful, and the young man laughed.

"Sorry--I ought to have put it the other way round, for it will belong to you."

Tommy shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said. "Some other Johnny's got it, you see."

The young man looked at his watch.

"My name's Morris--I live at Borcombe House--you'd better come and feed with me."

"Thanks, I'd like to, awfully."

"That's right--the old man will be glad to see you, and we'll have a game of billiards."

"I can't play."

"Never mind. I'll teach you--good game, pills."

Squire Morris was cordial from the grip of his hand to the moisture in his baggy eyes.

"The heir of Camslove," he said. "Well, well, I am so glad to see you, dear boy, so very glad to see you. You must come often."

For a moment a misgiving arose in Tommy's heart.

"Did you know my father?" he asked, as the old man held his hand.

"Yes, yes; not as well as I would have liked to know him, by no means as well as I would have liked to know him--but I knew him, oh yes. I knew him well enough."

Tommy felt reassured, and the three entered the old hall, hung with trophies of gun and rod and chase.

"A bachelor's abode," laughed the young man. "We're wedded to sport--no use for girls here, eh dad?"

The squire laughed wheezily.

"The dog," he chuckled, "the young dog."

Presently the squire led them to the dining room, where a bountiful meal was spread--so bountiful that Tommy, already predisposed for friendship, rapidly thawed into intimacy.

Both the squire and his son seemed intent on amusing him, and Tommy took the evident effort for the unaccomplished deed--for, in truth, the stories that they told were almost unintelligible to him, though, to the others, they appeared humorous enough.

Presently the squire grew even more affectionate. He had always loved boys, he said, and Tommy was not to forget it. He was a stern enemy, but a good friend, and Tommy was not to forget it. He would always be proud to shake hands with Tommy, wherever he met him, and Tommy was to keep this in remembrance.

Presently he retired to the sofa, with a cigar, which he was continually dropping.

The young man winked, genially, at Tommy.

"He always gets sleepy about this time," he explained.

"Sleepy?" interrupted his father, "not a bit of it. See here," and he filled the three glasses once more from the decanter.

"To the master of Camslove Grange," he cried, lifting his glass. And they drank the health, standing.

As Tommy walked home over the starlit fields, the scene came back to him.

The old man, wheezy but gracious, his son flushed and handsome, the panelled walls and their trophies, and the sparkling glasses--a brave picture.

True--he was still sore, but the episode of the farmer and his stick seemed infinitely remote, and Madge and the pale boy, ghosts of an era past: for had he not drunk of the good red wine, and kept company with gentlemen?

X

IN WHICH I RECEIVE TWO WARNINGS, AND NEGLECT ONE

I suppose that, by this time, I had grown fond of Tommy, in a very real way, for, as the weeks passed by, I was quick to notice the change in the boy.

There was a suggestion of swagger and an assumption of manliness in his manner, that troubled me.

I noticed, too, that he avoided many of his old haunts.

Often he would strike out across the downs and be away from early morning until starlight, and concerning his adventures he would be strangely reticent.

But I do not profess to have fathomed the ways and moods of boys, and I merely shrugged my shoulders, perhaps a little sorrowfully.

"I suppose he is growing up," thought I. And yet, for all that, I could not keep myself from wondering what influence was at work upon the boy's development. Even the doctor, who, of us all, saw the least of him, noticed the change, for he asked me suddenly, one late September day,

"What's the matter with Tommy?"

I looked at him with feigned surprise.

"I--he's all right, isn't he?"

The doctor shook his head.

"He has altered very much this summer, and I am afraid the alteration has not been good."

I cut at a nettle with my walking-stick.

"He is growing, of course."

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Then you have noticed nothing else--nothing in his demeanour or conversation--or friends?"

I abandoned my defences.

"Yes, I have noticed it, and I cannot understand it--and I am sorry for it."

"When does he return to school?"

"To-morrow."

The doctor appeared to be thinking. In a minute he looked into my face.

"It is a good thing, on the whole," he said, adding slowly.

"Don't drive the boy; let him forget."

He drove away, and I looked after him in some wonderment, for his words seemed enigmatical.

As I walked back to my garden I could hear Tommy whistling in his bedroom. There was a light in the room, and I could see him, half undressed, fondling one of his white rats. I remembered how he had insisted on their company and smiled.

"Sir."

From the shadow of the hedge a voice addressed me.

"Sir."

"Hullo," I said. Then, as I peered through the gloom, I saw a young woman standing before me, and, even in the dusk, I could read the eagerness in her eyes.

Her face was familiar.

"Surely I know you?" I asked.

"I'm Liza Berrill."

She spoke rapidly; yet, over her message she seemed hesitant.

Then:

"Oh, sir, don't let him be friends wi' that gentleman."

I stared.

"What do you mean?"

She pointed to the window!

Tommy was in his night-shirt, with the white rat running over his shoulders.

"Well?"

"Master Tommy, sir. There's a-many 'ave noticed it; don't let 'im get friends wi'----"

"With whom?"

Even in the dusk I could see the dull crimson creep into her cheeks.

"Squire Morris's son," she muttered.

We stood silent and face to face for a minute.

"You understand, sir?"

I remembered, and held out my hand.

"Yes, Liza; I understand. Thank you."

"Good night, sir."

"Good night."

She ran, with light footsteps, down the lane, and I stood alone beneath the poplars.

Far up into the deepening sky they reached, like still black sentinels, and between them glimmered a few early stars. In his bedroom I could see Tommy, holding the white rat in one hand and kneeling a moment at his very transient prayers.

I remembered a day whereon the colonel's riding-whip had been laid about Squire Morris's shoulders.

My heart beat high at the thought, for the squire had insulted one whose sweet face had long lain still. I thought of the son.

"Poor Liza," I murmured, and lifted the garden latch.

And as I looked up at Tommy's darkened window:

"God forbid," I said.

* * * * *

Next morning I called Tommy aside.

"Do you know young Morris, of Borcombe?"

He nodded.

"Tommy, I--I wish you would endeavour to avoid him in the future. He is no fit companion for you."

"Why?"

"I--you would not understand yet, Tommy; you must take my word for it."

Tommy looked a little sullen.

"He's a jolly good sort," he said. "I know him well; he's a jolly good sort."

"I am asking you, Tommy,"--I hesitated then. "For your father's sake," I added.

Tommy looked straight into my eyes.

"He was a friend of father's," he said, quietly.

"Your father thrashed the squire with his own hand; I saw him do it."

Tommy stood very still.

"Why?"

"I--I cannot explain it exactly; you must take my word."

Tommy turned on his heels.

"He's a jolly good sort," he muttered.

"But you must not make him a friend."

Tommy was silent, kicking at the carpet.

"I shall if I like," he said, presently; and that was the last word.

And it was only when I came back, rather sadly, from the station that I remembered the doctor's words and found a meaning for them.

"Oh, what a fool I am!" I said.

XI

IN WHICH TOMMY IS IN PERIL

Tommy spent his Christmas in town, with a distant relative, for I had been called abroad upon a matter of business, and his Easter holidays, since I was still away, were passed in Camslove vicarage.

It was, therefore, a year before I saw Tommy again, and on an August morning I met him at the little station.

I think we were both glad to see each other, and I found Tommy a little longer, perhaps a little leaner, but as brown and ruddy as ever.

"I say, it is ripping to get back here again, an' I've got into the third eleven, an' that bat you sent me is an absolute clinker, an' how's the poet, an' did you have a good time in Italy, an', I say, you are shoving on weight, you know, an' there's old Berrill, an' I say, Berrill, that's a ripping young jackdaw you sent, an' he's an' awful thief--that is, he was, you know, but young Jones's dog eat him, or most of him, an' I punched young Jones's head for letting 'em be together, an' I say--how ripping the downs are looking, aren't they?"

Tommy's spirits were infectious, and on the way home it would be hard to say which of us talked the most nonsense.

Our journey through the village was slow, for Tommy's friends were numerous, and spread out over the whole social scale, from the hand-to-mouth daysman to the unctuous chemist and stationer. They included the vicar, leaning over his garden gate, in his shirt-sleeves, surrounded by implements of horticulture, and also, I regret to say, the pot-boy of the Flaming Lion--a graceless young scamp, with poacher written in every lineament of his being.

I was not unprepared for his royal progress, since, during the summer, I had been frequently accosted by his friends, of varying rank and respectability, enquiring of "Master Thomas, sir."

"That young 'awk, sir, as I sent him last week?"

"Made many runs this year, sir, d'ye know?"

"Master Thomas in pretty good 'ealth, sir. Bad livin' in they big schools, sir, ben't it?"

And so on.

Far down the road I saw a horseman, but Tommy could not, by any means, be hurried, and a meeting I did not wish became inevitable.

As young Morris rode up he looked at me a little insolently--maybe it was only my fancy, for prejudice is a poor interpreter of expression--and nodded good day.

I saw that Tommy looked a little uncomfortable and his flow of chatter ceased suddenly.

Morris bent from the saddle and called him, and as I turned to the shop window I could hear them greeting one another.

I did not hear their further conversation, and it was only brief, but the Tommy who walked home with me thenceforward was not the same who had met me so buoyantly at the station.

Ah, these clouds, that are no greater than a man's hand and by reason of their very slenderness are so difficult to dispel!

The early days of August sped away happily enough, and their adventures were merely those of field, and stream, and valley, engrossing enough of the time and fraught no doubt with lessons of experience, but too trivial, I suppose, for record.

And yet I would rather write of them than of the day--the 8th of August--when the Borcombe eleven beat Camslove by many runs.

And yet again, I am not sure, for a peril realised early, even through a fall, may be the presage of ultimate victory.

I had been in town all day myself, and therefore had not been amongst the enthusiastic little crowd gathered in the field behind the church to watch this annual encounter, and a typical English country crowd it was, brimful of sport--see the eager movements of those gnarled hands and the light in the clear open-air eyes and wrinkled faces.

Camslove, too, had more than justified the prediction of their adherents and had made a hundred and fifty runs, a very creditable score.

"An' if they can stand Berrill's fast 'uns they bees good 'uns," chuckled they of Camslove, as they settled down to watch the Borcombe innings.

Tommy was hanging about the little tin-roofed pavilion, divided between a natural patriotism and a desire to see his hero perform wonders, for Squire Morris's son had consented to represent Borcombe.

Young Morris had never played for his village before, but his reputation as a cricketer was considerable, and the country-side awaited his display with some curiosity.

Nor were they disappointed, for in every way he played admirable cricket, and even Berrill's fast ones merely appeared to offer him opportunities of making boundary hits. His fellow cricketers spent more or less brief periods in his company, and disconsolately sought the shade of the pavilion and the trees, but Morris flogged away so mercilessly that the Camslove score was easily surpassed, with three wickets yet to fall, and in the end Borcombe obtained a very solid victory.

Young Morris was not held in high esteem in the country-side, and there were many who cordially disliked him--it was even whispered that one or two had sworn, deeply, a condign revenge for certain deeds of his--but he had played the innings of a master, and, as such, he received great applause on his return to the pavilion.

Tommy was in the highest spirits, and, full of a reflected glory, strode manfully, on his hero's arm, down the village street.

In the bar-room of the Flaming Lion many healths were drunk to the victors, to the defeated, to Berrill's fast 'uns, to the young squire's long success, to Tommy Wideawake.

Tommy, flushed and exultant, stood among the little group, with glowing cheeks.

Presently a grimy hand pulled his sleeve. It was the pot-boy.

"Don't 'ee 'ave no more, sir--not now," he whispered. But Tommy looked at him hotly.

"Can't a gentleman drink when he likes--damn you?" he asked.

The pot-boy slunk away, and a loud laugh rang round the little audience.

"Good on you, Tommy," cried Morris.

"Gentlemen, the girls--bless 'em." He filled their glasses, at his expense, and coupled a nameless wish with his toast.

Tommy, unconscious of its meaning, drank with the others.

Then he walked unsteadily to the door. There was a strange buzzing in his head, and a dawning feeling of nausea in him, which he strove to fight down.

And as he stood at the porch, flushed and bright-eyed, Madge Chantrey and the pale boy passed along the road. They were going to meet Miss Gerald, but Tommy staggered out and faced them.

"Hullo, Madge, old girl," he said, but she drew back, staring at him, with wide eyes.

The pale boy laughed.

"Why, he's drunk--dead drunk," he said.

Tommy lurched forward and struck him in the face, and in a moment the pale boy had sent him rolling heavily in the road. I picked him up, for I was passing on my way home from the station, and noticed the flush on his cheeks, and saw that they were streaked with blood and dust.