The account which he gave of himself to Lionel, one afternoon, when far advanced towards recovery, was somewhat vague and meagre; but it more than satisfied the master of Gatehouse Farm, who was one of the least inquisitive of mortals; and, for the present, it will have to satisfy the reader also.
They were sitting on a rustic bench just outside the farm porch, basking in the genial September sunshine. Lionel had his meerschaum between his lips, and was fondling the head of his favourite dog, Osric. Tom Bristow, who never smoked, was busy with a piece of boxwood and a pocket-knife. Little by little he was fashioning the wood into a capital but slightly caricatured likeness of worthy doctor Bell—a likeness which the jovial medico would be the first to recognize and laugh at when finished. Tom was a slim-built, aquiline-nosed, fair-complexioned, young fellow; rather under than over the ordinary height; and looking younger than he really was—he was six-and-twenty years old—by reason of his perfectly smooth and close-shaven face, which cherished not the slightest growth of whiskers, beard, or moustache. Tom’s first action on coming to his senses after his accident was to put his hand to his chin, just then bristling with a stubble of several days’ growth; and his first words to the startled nurse were, “My dear madam, I shall feel greatly obliged by your sending for a barber.” His eyes were blue, full of vivacity, and keenly observant of all that went on around him. He had a very good-natured smile, which showed off to advantage a very white and even set of teeth. His hands and feet were small, and he was rather inclined to be proud of them. His dress, while studiously plain in appearance, was made of the best materials, and owed its origin to one of the most famous of London tailors.
“Dering,” said Tom suddenly—they had been sitting for full five minutes without a word—“it is five weeks to-day since you saved my life.”
“What a memory you have!”
“Seeing that one’s life is not saved every day, I may be excused for remembering the fact, unimportant though it may seem to others. It is five weeks to-day since I was brought to Gatehouse Farm, and during all that time you have never asked me a question about myself or my antecedents. You don’t even know whether you have been entertaining a soldier, a sailor, a tinker, a tailor, a what’s-his-name, or a thief.”
“I didn’t wait to ask myself any question of that kind when I went down the cliff in search of you, and I don’t see why I need trouble myself now.”
“As a matter of simple justice both to you and himself, the mysterious stranger will now throw off his mystery, and appear in the commonplace garb of real life.”
“I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” said Lionel. “Your object just now is to get thoroughly well. Never mind anything else.”
“There’s no time like the time present. I’m ashamed of myself for not having spoken to you before.”
“If that’s the matter with you, I know you must have your say. Proceed, worthy young man, with your narrative, and get it over as quickly as possible.”