"You did not get on very well with your uncle."
"No; I was too stupid, and it made him angry, uncle."
"Humph! Well, Tom, by-gones must of course be by-gones. Your cousin
has written this letter at his father's dictation, and here is a
postscript.
"`Father seems to be very dangerously ill, and the doctor says that he
must have something upon his mind.'"
"Is it that he thinks he is more ill than he really is?" said Tom
quietly; but his uncle looked up from the letter so sharply and sternly
that the boy changed countenance.
"The letter does not suggest that, Tom," said Uncle Richard, frowning.
"My poor brother--" Uncle Richard paused for a moment or two--"wishes to
see me once again, he says, and--and you, my boy, on business of great
importance to you and your interests. If I cannot go, he requests that
you be sent up to him at once."
"Poor uncle!" said Tom quietly. "But does he think that I ought to go
back to the law, uncle?"
"Perhaps."
"But I couldn't, Uncle Richard, I am so stupid. I hate it. Pray, pray
don't think of letting me go. I am so happy here."
Uncle Richard's face relaxed a little.
"Perhaps he doesn't mean that. He had to do with your poor father's
affairs. It may be some business connected with them."
"What could there be, uncle?"
"Ah, that I cannot say. I was abroad at the time of his death."
"Mother never said anything about them," said Tom.
"Well, you must go up and see him at once."
"Of course, uncle."
"And I shall go with you, my boy. I hope he really is not so bad."
"I hope he is not," said Tom. "How soon shall you go, uncle?"
"In half-an-hour. If we sent for a fly we could only catch the one
o'clock train; if we walk over to the station we can catch that at
eleven. Shall we walk?"
"Yes, uncle. I'll change my things, and be ready as soon as you."
That afternoon they reached Mornington Crescent, to find straw laid
thickly down in front of the house, and a strange feeling of depression
came over Tom as they entered the silent room, to be received by his
aunt, who looked white and anxious.
"I am so glad you have come, Richard," she said eagerly. "James has
been asking for you and Tom so many times."
Just then a bell rang.
"That's his bell to know if it is you," said Aunt Fanny; and she hurried
up-stairs, to return in a few minutes.
"Come up at once," she said; "you first, Richard;" and she led the way
up-stairs, leaving Tom seated in the drawing-room, looking about at the
familiar objects, and growing more and more low-spirited, as they
recalled many an unhappy hour, and his troubles at the office, and with
his cousin Sam.
But he was not left there long. In a few minutes the door re-opened,
and his aunt and uncle came in.
"You are to go up, Tom," said Uncle Richard. "There is something to be
communicated to you."
"Is--is he so very ill, uncle?" said Tom, with a curious sensation of
shrinking troubling him.
"He is very ill, my boy. But don't keep him waiting."
"Is he in his own room, aunt?" asked Tom.
"Yes, my dear. Pray go softly, he is so weak."
Tom drew a deep breath, and went up to the next floor, tapped lightly at
the bedroom door, and expecting to see a terrible object stretched upon
the bed of sickness in a darkened chamber, he entered, and felt quite a
shock.
For the room was bright and sunlit, the window open, and his uncle,
looking very white and careworn, seated in an easy-chair, dressed, save
that he wore a loose dressing-gown.
"Ah, Tom," he said, holding out a thin hand, "at last--at last."
Tom took the hand extended to him, and felt it clutch his tightly.
"I'm so sorry to see you so ill, uncle," he said.
"Yes, yes, of course, boy; but don't waste time. Let me get it over--
before it is too late."
"You wanted to see me about business, uncle?"
"Yes," said Uncle James, with a groan; "terrible business. Ah, Tom, my
boy. But stop, go to the door, and see that no one is listening."
Tom obeyed, opening and closing the door.
"No, uncle, there is no one there."
"Turn the key, my boy, turn the key."
Tom obeyed, wondering more and more, as he returned to his uncle's side.
"Now, quick," said the sick man; "go to that cupboard, and bring out
that tin box."
He did as he was told, and brought out an ordinary deed-box, which at a
sign he placed upon a chair by his uncle's side.
"Can I do anything else, uncle?"
"Yes, boy," cried the sick man, "and it is my last request. Tom, I've
been a wicked wretch to you, and I want you to forgive me before I die."
Tom smiled.
"Of course, uncle," he said quietly, as a feeling of pity for the wreck
before him filled his breast, "I suppose I was very stupid, and made you
cross."
"He does not know, he does not know," groaned James Brandon, as he clung
to the boy's hand, "and I must tell him. Tom, my boy, it was a sore
temptation, and I did not resist it. I robbed you, my boy, dreadfully.
Here, take these, it is to make amends: deeds of some property, my boy,
and the mortgage of some money I have lent--nearly five thousand pounds,
my boy, and all yours by rights."
"Mine!" cried Tom, startled out of his calmness by the surprise.
"Yes, all yours, my boy. Your poor mother confided it to my care, Tom,
for you, and I was tempted, and kept it all back. It was a fraud, Tom,
and I am a criminal. I could not die with that on my conscience. Tell
me you forgive me, Tom, before it is too late."
Tom gazed at the convulsed face before him with a look of anger which
changed into pity, and then to disgust.
"Do you hear me, boy? You must, you shall forgive me. Don't you see I
am almost a dying man?"
"My mother trusted that all to you, and you sto--kept it back, uncle,"
said Tom sternly.
"Yes, my boy; yes, my boy. You are quite right--stole it all, robbed
you--an orphan. But I'm punished, Tom. I haven't had a happy hour
since; and you see these--these deeds in the strong cloth-lined
envelope, tied up with green silk--it is all yours, my boy. Take it and
keep it till you come of age, and then it is yours to do with as you
like. But tell me you forgive me."
Tom was silent, and his uncle groaned.
"Am I to go down on my knees to you?" he cried.
"No, uncle," said Tom sadly; "and I forgive you."
"Ah!" cried the wretched man, "at last--at last!" and he burst out into
an hysterical fit of sobbing, which was painful in the extreme to the
listener, as he stood gazing down, with the great envelope in his hand,
at the broken, wretched man before him, till the invalid looked up
sharply.
"Put it away--in your jacket, boy, and never let me see it again. Give
it to your uncle to take care of for you till you come of age. I shall
be dead and gone then, Tom; but you will have forgiven me, and I shall
be at rest."
Tom said nothing, for his head was in a whirl, but he quietly buttoned
up the packet in his breast.
"Have you told Uncle Richard, sir?" he said, at last.
"Told him? No, no one but you, boy."
"I must tell him, sir."
"Yes, but not here--not till you get home. Leave me now; I can bear no
more. Go down and send up your aunt. I must take something--and sleep.
I have had no rest for nights and nights, and I thought I should die
before I had time to confess to you, Tom. But you forgive me, my boy--
you forgive me?"
"Yes, uncle, once again I forgive you."
"Now go," cried the invalid, catching at and kissing the boy's cold
hand. "Don't stop here; go back home, for fear, Tom."
"For fear of what, uncle? you are not so bad as that."
"For fear," panted the sick man, with a strange cough, "for fear I
should try to get them back. Quick! go.--Now I can sleep and rest."
Tom went down, looking very strange, and found his aunt waiting
anxiously.
"He is better, aunt," said Tom quietly. "You are to go up to him at
once."
Aunt Fanny almost ran out of the room, and as soon as they were alone
Tom turned to his uncle.
"We are to go back home directly," he said.
"What, with him so bad! What about your business?"
"It is all done, uncle; and I am to take you back home, and tell you
there."
"Pish! why so much mystery, Tom?"
"It is Uncle James's wish, Uncle Richard," said Tom gravely.
"It was business then?"
"Very important."
"And we are to go?"
"Yes, at once. I want to go too, uncle, for I feel as if I could not
breathe here. Don't speak to me; don't ask me anything till we get
back, and then I'll tell you all."
"This is a strange business, Tom," said Uncle Richard, "but it is his
wish then. Well, we will go."
That night Tom sat in his uncle's study, and told of his interview with
the sick man, while his hearer slowly turned his head more and more
away, till the little narrative was at an end. Once, as he spoke, Tom
heard the words muttered--
"A scoundrel! My own brother too."
Then Uncle Richard was very silent, and his face was pale and strange,
as he took the packet from his nephew's hand.
"He must have been half mad, my boy," he said huskily, "or he would not
have done this thing. This must be our secret, Tom--a family secret,
never mentioned for all our sakes. We'll put the deeds in the old
bureau to-morrow, and try and forget it all till the proper time comes.
There, I'm better now. Glad too, very glad, Tom. First that he
repented of the wrong-doing, and glad that you are so independent, my
boy. It was always a puzzle to me that your poor mother should have
left you so badly off. I said nothing, for I thought she must have
foolishly frittered away what should have been yours."
"I wish I had never known this, uncle," said Tom bitterly.
"Why, my boy? it is best you should. I am glad your poor, foolish, weak
uncle has tried to make amends. The next thing we shall hear will be
that, with a load off his mind, he has grown better. Why, Tom, he must
have come down here to be near you, and confess the truth. Well,
good-night, boy. It has been a trying day--and night. Sleep on it and
forget it; but first--"
He held the boy's hand in his for a few moments, and his voice was very
husky when he spoke again.
"A family secret, Tom. Your uncle--my own brother. We must not judge
the tempted. Good-night; and when alone by your bedside--`Forgive us
our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.'
Good-night."
Uncle Richard led the way to the door, opened it, and half thrust him
without.
Tom stood for a few moments in the dark hall, and then went slowly up to
his room.
The next minute he had run down again, to silently enter the study, and
find Uncle Richard seated with his face buried in his hands, and his
breast heaving with the terrible emotion from which he suffered.
"Uncle."
"Tom."
The next instant he was clasped to the old man's breast, and held
tightly there.
For some minutes not a word more was said; then both rose, as if a great
weight had been lifted away.
"Good-night, Tom."
"Good-night, uncle."
And those two were closer together in heart than they had ever before
been, since Heatherleigh had become Tom Blount's home.