The time of Tom’s holidays was rather a holiday also for Beaufort, who,
having got a certain amount of amusement out of the notebooks and their
record of school-life, was beginning to be bored by himself, and to
think, under his breath, what a little prig and ass he had been in his
boyish days, and how astounding it was that Carry should take it all in
with such undoubting faith. He was a little of a philosopher in his idle
way, and Carry began to be a sometimes disconcerting but often amusing
problem to him. He laughed softly sometimes when he was by himself to
see how seriously she took him, and how much his youthful superiority
impressed her. It had not been in his intention when he unearthed the
notebooks to increase, as he had certainly done, her admiration, and,
consequently, her expectations of himself. He had hoped, if anything, to
beguile her a little from the pursuit of results, to make her less in
earnest about the great work on which she had set her heart. But his
expedient had not succeeded. She was more than ever bent upon the
fulfilling of that early promise which was so beautiful and so wonderful
in her eyes. Beaufort was half flattered, half vexed by this result. It
is hard to resent a woman’s admiration even if it is of something which
is no longer yourself. It softened his heart, but it embarrassed him
more than ever, as it made her more and more sure. He took advantage of
Tom with a little secret chuckle to himself behind backs. Tom amused
this philosopher too. He liked to draw him out, to watch the movements
of character in him, even to speculate what kind of a man it had been
that had produced this child. He must be like his father, Beaufort said
to himself, without any sentiment even of animosity towards Carry’s
husband. Certainly he had got the better of that man. He had
obliterated Torrance, as it were, from the face of the earth; but he
had no such feeling as Carry had about Torrance’s life and Torrance’s
money. He took it all much more calmly than she could do, not even
thinking of the curiousness of the succession which made him owe all his
comfort and happiness to Torrance. Tom, however, was the subject of
various speculations in his stepfather’s mind. If this was what the
little Torrance was modified by Lindores, what must the original have
been? And what would this one turn to? an ordinary country gentleman, no
better or worse than his neighbours, or what? A vague sense in his mind
that there might be future trouble to Carry in the child’s development
moved him mildly--for the distance between childhood and manhood seems
long looking forward to it, though so short when we look back: and any
such danger must be far in the future. It was rather as a droll little
problem, which it was amusing to study, that Mr. Beaufort looked at Tom;
but for that reason, and to free himself a little from the
ever-increasing pressure of his wife’s solicitude in respect to his
work and eager anticipation of something from him, he took during the
holidays the greatest interest in the boy, going out with him, sometimes
riding, sometimes driving, sometimes to the meet, where Tom’s eagerness
was scarcely to be restrained. Mr. Beaufort himself did not hunt. He was
not an ungraceful horseman for a moderate and mild canter; but if he had
ever been possessed of sufficient energy to follow the hounds, that
energy had long left him. He did not dislike, however, to ride to the
meet or drive his wife over, Tom accompanying them upon his pony. Lady
Car thought it was nothing less than devotion to her son which induced
him to depart from his studious seclusion on account of the boy. She was
very grateful to her husband, yet deprecated gently. ‘You are so very,
very good to Tom: but I cannot bear to think of all the sacrifices you
are making for him, Edward, wasting your time which is so much too
valuable to be thrown away upon a little boy.’
‘I wish my time was more valuable, to show you how willingly I would
give it up for anything belonging to you, Carry, not to say for your
boy.’
‘Oh thanks, thanks, dear Edward; but I can’t have you burdened with
Tom.’
‘I like it,’ he said. ‘I like--boys.’ It was almost too much for him to
say that he liked this particular boy. ‘And Tom interests me very much,’
he added. Carry looked at him with a wistful curiosity. A gleam of
colour passed over her face. Was it possible that Tom was interesting to
such a man as Edward Beaufort? She felt guilty to ask herself that
question. She had been afraid that Tom was not very interesting, not a
child to attract any one much who did not belong to him. To be sure the
child did belong to him, in a sort of a way.
‘So you like school, Tom,’ said Beaufort, looking down from his tall
horse at the little fellow on his pony, strenuously keeping up with him.
Had Beaufort been a more athletic person, he would have appreciated more
the boy’s determination not to be left a step behind.
‘Well,’ said Tom, reflectively, ‘I like it, and I don’t like it. I think
lessons are great rot.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said his tall companion.
‘Don’t _you_, Beau? They don’t teach anything a fellow wants. What’s the
good of Latin, let alone Greek? They’re what you call dead languages,
and we don’t want what’s dead. When you’ve got to make your living by
them it’s different, like Hall’s sons that are going to be the
schoolmasters when he dies.’
‘Did you think of all that by yourself, Tom?’
‘No,’ said the boy after a stare of a moment, and some hesitation. ‘It
wasn’t me, it was Harrison major. His father’s very rich, and he’s in
trade. And Harrison says what’s the good of these things. You never want
them. They’re only an excuse for sending in heavy bills, Harrison says.’
‘He must be a great authority,’ said Mr. Beaufort gravely.
‘He knows a deal,’ said Tom reassured, for he had some doubts whether
Harrison major’s opinions would have been received with the deference
they deserved. ‘He’s the biggest fellow in the school, though he’s not
very swell in learning. But he doesn’t mind. He says fellows that are to
have plenty of money don’t want it.’
‘That’s a frequent opinion of people in trade,’ said Beaufort. ‘I would
not put too much faith in it if I were you.’
‘Eh?’ cried Tom, opening his big light eyes under his dark brows more
widely than ever, and staring up into his stepfather’s face.
‘You will have plenty of money, I suppose?’ said Beaufort calmly.
‘Oh, don’t you know? I’ll be one of the richest fellows in Scotland,’
cried the boy.
‘Who told you that, Tom?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t tell you. I know it, that’s all. It was perhaps
only nurse,’ he added with reluctance; ‘but she’s been to my place, and
she knows all about it. You can ask her if you haven’t heard.’
‘So you have got a place besides being so rich?’ Beaufort said, in calm
interrogation, without surprise.
Tom was very much embarrassed by this questioning. He stared at his
stepfather more than ever. ‘Hasn’t mother told you? I thought she told
you everything.’
‘So did I. But all this about your place I never heard. Let’s have the
rest of it, Tom.’
‘Oh, I don’t know that there’s much more,’ said the boy. ‘It’s a great
big place with a high tower, and a flag flying when I’m at home--like
the Queen--and acres upon acres in the park. It was my father’s, don’t
you know? and now it’s mine.’
‘How old are you, Master Tom?’
‘Eleven in April,’ said Tom, promptly.
‘Then it will be ten years before you have anything to say to your
place, as you call it. I’ve seen your place, Tom. It is not so very much
of a place; as for a flag, you know we might mount a flag at Easton if
we liked and nobody would mind.’
Tom’s black brows had gathered, and his eyes looked with that
fierceness mingled with fear which belongs to childhood, into his
stepfather’s face. He was very wroth to have his pretensions thus made
light of, but the habitual faith of his age alarmed him with a sense
that it might be true.
‘We’ll mount one this afternoon,’ his tormentor said; ‘it will be fun
for you and me taking it down when your mother goes out for her drive,
and hoisting it again when she comes back. She deserves a flag better
than you do, don’t you think? Almost as well as the Queen. The only
danger is that the country people might take Easton for the Beaufort
Arms, and want to come in and drink beer. What do you think?’
‘I say, Beau, are you in real earnest about a flag?’
‘To be sure. I don’t know what you have on yours at the Towers, but we
have a famous blazon on the Beaufort side. We’ll get a square of silk
from your mother, and paint it as soon as we go in. I forget what your
arms are, Tom?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the boy, humbly. ‘I never heard anything about
them. I didn’t know you had arms on a flag.’
‘Ah!’ said Beaufort, ‘you see there are a great many things you don’t
know yet. And about matters that concern gentlemen, I wouldn’t advise
you either to take nurse’s opinion or that of your young man whose
father is in trade.’
Tom rode along by his stepfather’s side in silence for some time. He
felt much taken down--crushed by a superiority which he could not
resist, yet very unwilling to yield. There was always the uncomfortable
conviction in his mind that what Beaufort said must be true, mingled
with the uneasy feeling that Beau might be chaffing all the time, a
combination confusing for every simple mind. Tom was not at all willing
to give in. He felt instinctively that a flag at Easton would turn his
own grandeur, which he believed in so devoutly, into ridicule: for
Easton was not much more than a villa, in the suburbs of a little town.
At the same time he could not but feel that to haul it up and down when
his mother went out or came in would be fun; and the painting of the
flag with a general muddle of paints and means of _barbouillage_ in
general still greater fun, and the most delightful way of spending the
afternoon.
‘I say, Beau,’ he asked, after a long interval, ‘what’s in your arms, as
you call them? I should like to know.’
Beaufort laughed. ‘You must not ask what’s in them, but what they are,
Tom. A fellow of your pretensions ought to know. Fancy a chatelain in
ignorance of such a matter!’
‘What’s a chatelain? You are only laughing at me,’ cried the boy, with
lowering eyebrows. ‘It’s a thing mother wears at her side, all hanging
with silver chains.’
‘It’s the master of a place--like what you suppose yours to be. My arms
are rather too grand for a simple gentleman to bear. We quarter the
shields of France and England,’ said Beaufort, gravely, forgetting who
his companion was for the moment. Then he laughed again. ‘You see, Tom,
though I have not a castle, I have a flag almost as grand as the
Queen’s.’
All this was rather humbling to poor Tom’s pride, and confusing to his
intellect, but he came home full of the plan of painting and putting up
this wonderful flag. There was an old flagstaff somewhere, which had
been used for the decorations of some school feast. Beaufort, much
amused, instructed his small assistant to paint this in alternate strips
of blue and white. ‘The colours of the bordure, you know, Tom.’ ‘Oh, are
they?’ cried Tom, determined to pretend to understand. And Lady Car
found him in the early afternoon, in a shed appropriated to carpentering
behind the house, delightfully occupied about his task, and with patches
of blue and white all over him from shoe to chin.
‘What are you doing, Tom?’ she cried. Janet following stood transfixed
with her eyes widening every moment--half with wonder, half with envy.
What she would have given to paint the staff and herself in imitation of
Tom!
‘It’s the colours of the bordure,’ said the boy. ‘I’m doing it for
Beau.’
‘The colours of what?’ Lady Car was as ignorant of heraldry as Tom
himself.
‘Have we got a bordure? and what’s our colours? and I want to know what
are the arms, mother. I mean my arms: for I suppose,’ he said, pausing
in his work to look at her, ‘yours are just Beau’s now?’
‘What does the boy mean?’ said Carry. ‘Janet, you must not go too near
him; you will spoil your frock. Tom, your jacket will never be fit to be
seen again.’
‘I don’t care for my jacket. Mother, look here. Beau’s going to put up a
flag for you like the Queen, and I’m doing the stick. But I want to know
about my own shield, and my colours; and if I’ve got a bordure, and if
we’re in quarters, or what. I want to know about the flag at the
Towers.’
Lady Car made a step backward as if she had received a blow. ‘There was
no flag at the Towers--I mean there were no arms upon it.--There were
no--who put such nonsense into your head, Tom?’
‘It’s not nonsense. Beau told me--he’s going to give me a lesson how to
do it. He knows all about it. He says it’s no use asking nurse or
Harrison major whose father is in trade. It’s only gentlemen that have
this sort of thing. Mother, have I got a bordure?’
‘Mozer,’ said little Janet, ‘please buy him a bordure.’
Poor Carry was not fond of any allusion to her former home. She was glad
to laugh at the little girl’s petition--though with a tremor that was
half hysterical. ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ she said. ‘I will buy
him anything that he wants, that is good for him, but oh, dear, what a
mess he is in! Your lines are not straight, and you are all over paint.
Jan, come away from that painted boy.’
‘Oh, mozer, let me stay!’ cried Janet, possessing herself of a stray
brush.
It was perhaps those black brows of theirs that gave them such an air of
determination. Carry did not feel herself able to cope with the two
little creatures who looked at her with their father’s eyes. She had to
yield oftener than was good for them or than she felt to be becoming.
She took her usual expedient of hurrying in to her husband to consult
him as to what it was best to do. He was in his library, and she had no
doubt he was hard at work. It was generally with some little difficulty
and after some delay that on ordinary occasions he had to be gently
beguiled into his own sacred room after luncheon: but he had gone to-day
at once with an alacrity which made Carry sure he had some new ideas to
put down. And her heart was light and full of satisfaction. He was
seated at his table leaning over it, so busy that he did not hear the
door open, and she paused there for a moment, happiness expanding her
breast, and a smile of tender pleasure on her face. She would not
interrupt him when he was busy with any trivial matter of hers. She
stood and watched him with the purest satisfaction. Then she stole in
quietly, not to interrupt him, only to look over his shoulder, to give
him perhaps a kiss of thanks for being so busy. Poor Carry! what she
found when she approached was that Beaufort’s head was bent with every
appearance of profound interest over an emblazoned book, from which he
was drawing on a larger scale, upon a big sheet of paper, the Beaufort
arms. She breathed forth an ‘Oh!’ of sickening disappointment; and he
turned his head.
‘Is it you, Carry? Look here. I have got a new toy.’
‘So I perceive,’ she said. It was all she could do to keep the tears
from showing in her eyes; but he would not have seen them, having turned
back to his work again.
‘A moral purpose is a feeble thing,’ he said over his compasses and
pencils. ‘I began it as a lesson to Tom, to take him down a bit; but I
find it quite interesting enough on its own account. Look here. We are
going to rig you up a flag, as Tom says, like the Queen.’
Poor Carry! How her tender heart went up and down like a shuttlecock, as
she stood with her hand on the back of his chair. Her eyes full of
bitter tears of disappointment; the thought that it was out of interest
in Tom and love for her that this futile occupation had been taken up,
melted her altogether. How could she allow, even in her own mind, a
shadow of blame to rest on one so tender and so good? She laid her hand
upon his shoulder, and patted it softly, like the mother of a foolish,
delightful child.
‘Dear Edward, I almost grudge that you should think of so many things
for me,’ she said.
‘My dear, it was not primarily for you, but as a lesson to Tom,’ he
said, fixing the leg of his compasses firmly in the paper. ‘You must
take him to--his place as he calls it, Carry. But I confess that for the
moment I had forgotten my object. To give a moral lesson is a fine
thing; but it’s nothing to the invention of a new toy.’