The Vast Abyss. Fenn George Manville
extinguished the light, remembered by his bedside the old mother-taught lesson, and added a prayer for pardon in regard for that which he had made up his mind to do. Then, as his head pressed the pillow, he lay thinking of all that had taken place since he had been at his uncle’s, and came finally to the conclusion that he could bear no more.
“I can’t help being a fool,” he said to himself, dolefully. “I have tried, but all these law things slip out of my head as fast as I read them. Of course it makes uncle bitter and angry, when he has tried to help me, and would go on trying if it was not for Sam.”
Then the long, weary time of his stay came up, and in succession the series of injuries and petty annoyances to which he had been subjected by his cousin passed before him, strengthening his determination.
But in spite of all these, he would have fought down the desire so strong upon him if it had not been for the past evening’s scene. Even as he lay in bed his face flushed, and he quivered with shame and indignation. For here it all was vividly before his mind’s eye. What had he done to deserve it? Nothing. He had spoken the truth, and declined to take his cousin’s lapse upon his own shoulders about that letter; and then on getting home Sam had turned upon him, and any boy, Tom argued, would have done as he did, and struck back. He’d have been a mean-spirited coward if he had not.
“No, I can’t stand it,” he muttered, with his head beneath the clothes. “He was going to beat me in spite of all I said, and it was too horrible. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I had been in the wrong, but even then it was too cruel before aunt – before the servants, and with Sam lying there shamming to be so bad, and watching all the time in his delight. No, I won’t alter my mind in the morning. Poor father used to say, ‘Sleep on it, my lad;’ but I can’t sleep on this. I must go now before things get worse.”
He threw the clothes from his face and lay listening, to try and make out whether his cousin was awake. He was not, for a heavy stuffy breathing could be heard, consequent upon Sam’s mouth being open, a peculiar puffy swelling about the nose preventing him from breathing in the usual way.
This brought a gleam of mental sunshine into Tom’s sad and blackened horizon. Naturally a bright, merry lad, for months past he had not had a hearty laugh; but now, as he recalled his cousin’s appearance, the smile broadened, and for a few moments he shook with suppressed laughter.
But the mirth passed away directly, for the matter was too serious, and he now lay with knitted brows, listening to his cousin’s breathing, and continuing his plans.
He would wait another hour, and then begin.
He waited for some time listening till the last sound had died out in the house, thinking that he must move about very silently, for his uncle’s room was beneath, and the servants were only separated from them by a not too thick wall.
“Poor cook! poor Mary!” he thought. “I should like to kiss them and say good-bye. How brave cook was; and she is sure to lose her place for taking my part. Aunt and uncle will never forgive her. How I wish I had a home of my own and her for housekeeper. But perhaps I shall never have one now, for what am I going to do when I go?”
That was the great puzzle as he lay there gazing at the window-blind, faintly illumined by the gas-lamps in the Crescent. What was he to do? Soldier? – No; he was too young, and wanting in manly aspect. Sailor? – No. He would like to go to sea, and have adventures; but no, if his father and mother had lived it would have given them pain to know that he had run away to enlist, or get on board some coasting vessel.
No; he could not do that. It might be brave and daring, but at the same time he had a kind of feeling that it would be degrading, and he would somehow do better than either of those things, and try and show his uncles, both of them, and Sam too, that if he was a fool, he was a fool with some good qualities.
But it was quite an hour since it had struck twelve, and it was time to act. The first thing was to test Sam’s sleep – whether he was sound enough to enable him to make his preparations unheard.
What would be the best thing to do? came again. How could he get work without a character? What answer could he give people who asked him who he was, and whence he came?
No answer came, think hard as he would. All was one black, impenetrable cloud before him, into which he had made up his mind to plunge, and what his future was to be he could not tell. But let it be what it would, he mentally vowed that it should be something honest, and he would not let the blackness of that cloud stay him. No; his mind was fully made up now. This was his last night at his uncle’s house, and he would take his chance as to where he would next lay his head.
“I shall be free,” he muttered half aloud; “now I am like a slave.”
It was time to act. Not that he meant to leave the house that night. No; his mind was made up. He would pack a few things in the little black bag in which he took his law-books to and fro, place it ready in the hall as usual, and go in to his breakfast; and when he started for the office, just call in and say good-bye to Pringle, who would not hinder him. On the contrary, he would be sure to give him advice, and perhaps help him as to his future.
“Poor old Pringle won’t say stay,” he muttered; and reaching out of bed, he felt in his trousers pocket on the chair for a halfpenny. He could not spare it, but it was the only missile he could think of then, and he held it poised ready to throw as he listened to his cousin’s heavy breathing.
He threw the coin forcibly, so that it struck the wall just above Sam’s head, and fell upon his face.
There was no movement, and the heavy, guttural breathing went on.
Tom waited a few minutes, and then slipped out of bed, crossed to his cousin’s side, and gave the iron bedstead a slight shake, then a hard one. Next he touched his shoulder, and finished by laying a cold hand upon his hot brow.
But the result was always the same – the heavy, hoarse breathing.
Satisfied that he might do anything without arousing his cousin, he returned to his own bed, slipped on his trousers, and sat down to think.
There was the bag of books on the top of his little chest of drawers, and he had only to take them out, lay them down, and after carefully pulling out the drawer, pack the bag full of linen, and add an extra suit. It would be a tight cram, but he would want the things, and they would prove very useful.
But there was a hitch here. All these things were new, his old were worn-out, and his uncle had paid for all these in spite of his aunt’s suggestion, that there were a good many of Sam’s old things that might be altered to fit.
He stumbled over this. They were not his; and at last, in a spirit of proud independence, he ignored his own services to his uncle, and stubbornly determined that he would take nothing but the clothes in which he stood.
“And some day I’ll send the money to pay for them,” he said proudly, half aloud.
“Gug – gug – gug – ghur-r-r-r,” came from his cousin’s bed as if in derision.
But Tom’s mind was made up, and undressing once more he lay down to think, but did not, for, quite satisfied now as to his plans, no sooner had his head touched the pillow than, utterly wearied out, he dropped asleep.
It seemed to him that he had only just closed his eyes, when, in a dreamy way, he heard the customary tapping at his door, followed by a growl from Sam, bidding Mary not make “that row.”
Then Tom was wide-awake, thinking of his over-night plans.
And repentant?
Not in the least. He lay there thinking fiercely, only troubled by the idea of what he would do as soon as he had made his plunge penniless into that dense black cloud – the future.
But there was no lifting of the black curtain. He could see his way to the office to bid Pringle good-bye. After that all was hidden.
At the end of a quarter of an hour he jumped up and began to dress, while Sam lay with his back to him fast asleep, or pretending.
It did not matter, for he did not want to speak to him; and after dressing, and duly noting that there was