The church clock was striking six when Tom awoke, sprang out of bed, and
looked out of the window, to find a glorious morning, with everything
drenched in dew.
Hastily dressing and hurrying down, he felt full of reproach for having
overslept himself, his last thought having been of getting up at
daybreak to continue the watch with David.
There were the pears hanging in their places, and not a footprint
visible upon the beds; and there too were the indentations made by two
pairs of knees in the black-currant rows, while the earth was marked by
the coarse fibre of the sacks.
But the dew lay thickly, and had not been brushed off anywhere, and it
suddenly struck Tom that the black-currant bushes would not be a
favourable hiding-place when the light was coming, and that David must
have selected some other.
"Of course: in those laurels," thought Tom, and he went along the path;
but the piece of lawn between him and the shrubs had not been crossed,
and after looking about in different directions, Tom began to grin and
feel triumphant, for he was, after all, the first to wake.
In fact it was not till half-past seven that the gardener arrived,
walking very fast till he caught sight of Tom, when he checked his
speed, and came down the garden bent of back and groaning.
"Morning, Master Tom, sir. Oh, my back! Tried so hard to drag myself
here just afore daylight."
"Only you didn't wake, David," cried Tom, interrupting him. "Why, you
ought to have been up after having such a snooze last night in the
garden."
"I won't have you say such a word, sir," cried David angrily. "Snooze!
Me snooze! Why, it was you, sir, and you're a-shoving it on to me,
and--"
David stopped short, for he could not stand the clear gaze of Tom's
laughing eyes. His face relaxed a little, and a few puckers began to
appear, commencing a smile.
"Well, it warn't for many minutes, Master Tom."
"An hour."
"Nay, sir, nay; not a 'our."
"Quite, David; and I wouldn't wake you. I say, don't be a sham. You
did oversleep yourself."
"Well, I s'pose I did, sir, just a little."
"And now what would you say if I told you that Pete has been and carried
off all the pears?"
"What!" yelled David; and straightening himself he ran off as hard as he
could to the Marie Louise pear-tree, but only to come back grinning.
"Nay, they're all right," he said. "But you'll come and have another
try to-night?"
"Of course I will," said Tom; and soon after he hurried in to breakfast.
That morning Tom was in the workshop, where for nearly two hours, with
rests between, he had been helping the speculum grinding. Uncle Richard
had been summoned into the cottage, to see one of the tradesmen about
some little matter of business, and finding that the bench did not stand
quite so steady as it should, the boy fetched a piece of wood from the
corner, and felt in his pocket for his knife, so as to cut a wedge, but
the knife was not there, and he looked about him, feeling puzzled.
"When did I have it last?" he thought. "I remember: here, the day
before the speculum was broken. I had it to cut a wedge to put under
that stool, and left it on the bench."
But there was no knife visible, and he was concluding that he must have
had it since, and left it in his other trousers' pocket, when he heard
steps, and looking out through the open door, he saw the Vicar coming up
the slope from the gate.
"Good-morning, sir," said Tom cheerily.
"Good-morning, Thomas Blount," was the reply, in very grave tones,
accompanied by a searching look. "Is your uncle here?"
"No, sir," said Tom wonderingly; "he has just gone indoors. Shall I
call him?"
"Yes--no--not yet."
The Vicar coughed to clear his throat, and looked curiously at Tom
again, with the result that the lad felt uncomfortable, and flushed a
little.
"Will you sit down, sir?" said Tom, taking a pot of rough emery off a
stool, and giving the top a rub.
"Thank you, no."
The Vicar coughed again to get rid of an unpleasant huskiness, and then,
as if with an effort--
"The fact is, Thomas Blount, I am glad he is not here, for I wish to say
a few words to you seriously. I did mean to speak to him, but this is
better. It shall be a matter of privacy between us, and I ask you, my
boy, to treat me not as your censor but as your friend--one who wishes
you well."
"Yes, sir, of course. Thank you, sir, I will," said Tom, who felt
puzzled, and grew more and more uncomfortable as he wondered what it
could all mean, and finally, as the Vicar remained silent, concluded
that it must be something to do with his behaviour in church. Then no,
it could not be that, for he could find no cause of offence.
"I know," thought Tom suddenly. "He wants me to go and read with him,
Latin and Greek, I suppose, or mathematics."
The Vicar coughed again, and looked so hard at Tom that the boy felt
still more uncomfortable, and hurriedly began to pull down his rolled-up
shirt-sleeves and to button his cuffs.
"Don't do that, Thomas Blount," said the Vicar, still more huskily;
"there is nothing to be ashamed of in honest manual labour."
"No, sir, of course not," said the lad, still more uncomfortable, for it
was very unpleasant to be addressed as "Thomas Blount," in that formal
way.
"I often regret," said the Vicar, "that I have so few opportunities for
genuine hard muscular work, and admire your uncle for the way in which
he plunges into labour of different kinds. For such work is purifying,
Thomas Blount, and ennobling."
This was all very strange, and seemed like the beginning of a lecture,
but Tom felt better, and he liked the Vicar--at least at other times,
but not now.
"Will you be honest with me, my lad?" said the visitor at last.
"Oh yes, sir," was the reply, for "my lad" sounded so much better than
formal Thomas Blount.
"That's right. Ahem!"
Another cough. A pause, and Tom coloured a little more beneath the
searching gaze that met his.
"Were you out last night?" came at last, to break a most embarrassing
silence.
"Yes, sir."
"Out late?"
"Yes, sir; quite late."
"Humph!" ejaculated the Vicar, who looked now very hard and stern. "One
moment--would you mind lending me your knife?"
"My knife!" faltered Tom, astounded at such a request; and then, in a
quick, hurried way--"I'm so sorry, sir, I cannot. I was looking for it
just now, but I've lost it."
"Lost it? Dear me! Was it a valuable knife?"
"Oh no, sir, only an old one, with the small blade broken."
"Would you mind describing it to me?"
"Describing it, sir? Of course not. It had a big pointed blade, and a
black and white bone handle."
"And the small blade broken, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Had it any other mark by which you would know it? Knives with small
blades broken are very general."
"No, sir, no other mark. Oh yes, it had. I filed a T and a B in it one
day, but it was very badly done."
"Very, Thomas Blount," said the Vicar, taking something from his
breast-pocket. "Is that your knife?"
"Yes," cried Tom eagerly, "that's it! Where did you find it, sir? I
know; you must have taken it off that bench by mistake when uncle showed
you round."
"No, Thomas Blount," said the Vicar, shaking his head, and keeping his
eyes fixed upon the lad; "I found it this morning in my garden."
"You couldn't, sir," cried Tom bluntly. "How could it get there?"