The Vast Abyss. George Manville Fenn
started, and looked sharply from one to the other.
“Mayn’t I go and say good-bye to Pringle, uncle?” he cried.
“No, sir,” said his Uncle James coldly; “you will only have time to get your box packed. Your uncle is going to catch the ten fifty-five from Charing Cross.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Richard; “and you can write to your friend.”
“Or better not,” said Mr. Brandon. “Tom has been rather too fond of making friends of people beneath him. There, my lad, you had better go and be getting ready; and I sincerely hope that you will make good use of your new opportunity.”
Tom hardly knew how he got out of the room, for he felt giddy with excitement. Then he was not going to run away, but to be taken down into Surrey by his Uncle Richard—and for what?
Would he behave well to him? He looked cold and stern, but he was not on the previous night. Young as he was, Tom could read that there was another side to his character. Yes, he must go, he thought; and then he came face to face with Mary, who came bustling out of a bedroom.
“La! Master Tom, how you startled me. Not gone to the office?”
“No, Mary. I’m going away for good with Uncle Richard.”
“Oh, I am glad! No, I ain’t—I’m sorry. But when?”
“This morning—almost directly.”
“My! I’ll go and tell cook.”
Tom reached his room, packed up his things as if in a dream, and bore the box down-stairs, his cousin having left the house some time. Then, still as if in a dream, he found himself in the breakfast-room, and heard Mary told to whistle for a cab.
Ten minutes later his uncle’s Gladstone was on the roof side by side with the modest old school box; and after saying good-bye to all, they were going down the steps.
“Jump in first, Tom,” said Uncle Richard, “and let’s have no silly crying about leaving home.”
Tom started, and stared at his uncle with his eyes wonderfully dry then, but the next moment they were moist, for two female figures were at the area gate waving their handkerchiefs; and as the boy leaned forward to wave his hand in return, mingled with the trampling of the horse, and the rattle of the wheels, there came his uncle’s voice shouting Charing Cross to the cabman from the kerb, and from the area gate—
“Good-bye, Master Tom, good-bye!”
“Why, the boy’s wet-eyed!” said Uncle Richard in a peculiarly sneering voice. “What a young scoundrel you must have been, sir, to make those two servants shout after you like that! There, now for a fresh home, boy, and the beginning of a new life, for your dear dead mother’s sake.”
“Uncle!” gasped Tom, with the weak tears now really showing in his eyes, for there was a wonderful change in his companion’s voice, as he laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.
“Yes, Tom, your uncle, my boy. I never quarrel with my brother James or his wife, but I don’t believe quite all that has been said about you.”
All thought of running away to seek his fortune faded out of Tom Blount’s brain, as he sat there with his teeth pressed together, staring straight away between the horse’s ears, trying hard to be firm.
But after long months of a very wretched life it was stiff work to keep his feelings well within bounds.
Chapter Seven.
“Now, Tom, cloak-room; come along. I’ve got some tackle to take down with us. Only ten minutes before we start. Here, porter, luggage—quick!”
A man came forward with a barrow, and after taking the luggage from the cab, followed to the cloak-room, from whence sundry heavy, peculiar-looking packages and a box were handed out and trundled to the train; and in a few minutes, with his heart beating wildly, and a feeling of excitement making him long to jump up and shout aloud, Tom sat there watching the houses and trees seem to glide more and more swiftly past the windows as the speed increased. For to him it was like being suddenly freed from prison; and instead of the black cloud which had been hanging before his eyes—the blank curtain of the future which he had vainly tried to penetrate—he was now gazing mentally ahead along a vista full of bright sunshine and joy.
There were two other passengers in the carriage, who, like his uncle, were soon absorbed in their papers, and not a word was spoken until these two got out at the first stopping-place, twenty miles from town; and as soon as the porter had given the door that tremendous unnecessary bang so popular with his fraternity, and the train was speeding on again, Uncle Richard threw down his paper with a loud “Hah!” and turned to his nephew.
“Well, Tom,” he said, “I don’t know what I am to do with you now I have got you. You don’t want to go on with the law?”
“Oh no, sir, I am too stupid,” said Tom quickly.
“Why do you say ‘sir,’ my boy? Will not uncle do for your mother’s brother?”
“Uncle James told me always to say ‘sir,’ sir—uncle I mean.”
“Ah, but I’m not your Uncle James, and I like the old-fashioned way. Well, as you are too stupid for the law, I suppose I must try you with something easier—say mathematics.”
Tom looked at him aghast.
“A nice pleasant subject, full of calculations. But we shall see. I suppose you will not mind helping me?”
“I shall be glad to, uncle.”
“That’s right; but you don’t know yet what I want you to do. You will have to take your coat off sometimes, work hard, put on an apron, and often get dirty.”
“Gardening, uncle? Oh, I shall like that.”
“Yes; gardening sometimes, but in other ways too. I do a deal of tinkering now and then.” Tom stared.
“Yes, I mean it: with tin and solder, and then I try brass and turning. I have a regular workshop, you know, with a small forge and anvil. Can you blow bellows?”
Tom stared a little harder as he gazed in the clear grey eyes and the calm unruffled countenance, in which there was not the dawn of a smile.
“I never tried,” said Tom, “but I feel sure I could.”
“And I feel sure you cannot without learning; some of the easiest-looking things are the hardest, you know. Of course any one can blow forge bellows after a fashion, but it requires some pains to manage the blast aright, and not send the small coal and sparks flying over the place, while the iron is being burned up.”
“Iron burned up?” said Tom.
“To be sure. If I put a piece in the forge, I could manage the supply of oxygen so as to bring it from a cherry heat right up to a white, while possibly at your first trial you would burn a good deal of the iron away.”
“I did not know that,” said Sam.
“And I suppose there are a few other little things you do not know, my boy. There’s a deal to learn, Tom, and the worst or best of it is, that the more you find out the more you realise that there is no end to discovery. But so much for the blacksmith’s work.”
“But you are not a blacksmith, uncle.”
“Oh yes, I am, Tom, and a carpenter too. A bad workman I know, but I manage what I want. Then there is my new business too at the mill.”
“Steam mill, uncle?”
“Oh no, nor yet water. It’s a regular old-fashioned flour-mill with