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.