Chapter 37

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_ CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

"From your cousin," said Uncle Richard, opening one of his letters, his face gradually growing very stern and troubled as he read; while as he finished and raised his eyes, he found that Tom was watching him intently.

"Sad news, Tom," said his uncle, in a low, grave voice. "My brother has been better, but he has during the past week had a fresh attack, and is very bad."

"I am very sorry, uncle," said Tom frankly.

"Yes, you would be, Tom, as it is serious."

Uncle Richard paused, looking very hard at his nephew. Then quietly--

"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. _

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