Chapter 27 Chapter 26 Apology

There had been times in Tom's life when he had gone to sleep in disappointment or sorrow, and always woke up with a new day, a new hope.This time, he found that the morning was only the continuation of the previous night and day: the fear and sorrow of the previous night were waiting for him when his mind was just awakening. Today is Saturday, and he has lost his last chance, lost the garden.He is going home today. Tears rolled down his eyes and he couldn't stop them.Aunt Gwen came to see him early in the morning and put her arms around him and said: "But, Tom, tell me--tell me what the hell is going on!"

At this moment, he finally wanted to tell her—telling his sorrow to his aunt might ease the sorrow.But it was too late: his story was too long, too unbelievable.Tom looked at his aunt silently, and wept softly. Tom ate his breakfast in bed like a sick man.The Kitsons talked about Tom over breakfast by themselves. "In this state, he must not be left alone on such a long train journey," said Aunt Gwen. "Can we drive him home?" Alan Kitson readily agreed.He has to go to work on Saturday morning, so he can only leave in the afternoon.They sent a telegram to the Lange family.

Tom was up and dressed soon after breakfast, and preferred to be active instead of lying in bed thinking.He left the bedroom and came to the small living room, where his uncle was going to work.Uncle and aunt told him the plans had changed, and Tom nodded. Uncle Allen said "goodbye" and walked out of the suite, with Aunt Gwen closing the door behind him.But almost at once she and Tom heard voices outside, and a few minutes later Uncle Allen returned, very angry. "It's the old woman," he said. "Why can't she just let it go?" "Mrs. Bartholomew? What does she want now?"

"I apologize for what happened last night. In fact, I apologized to her at that time, and I apologized again just now, but she said that the little boy must go to see her in person." "I will never let him go up!" Aunt Gwen yelled angrily, "Her request is too much! I'm going to tell her myself!" Enraged by Mrs. Bartholomew, Tom's aunt ran towards Go to the door.Her husband stopped her. "Watch out, Gwen! She's the landlady. If we annoy her, we'll be in big trouble." "I don't care!" "Let me calm her down," said Uncle Allen.

"No," said Tom suddenly, in a flat, steady voice, "I'll go to her. I should. I'm not afraid." "I won't let you go, Tom!" cried Aunt Gwen. "I'm going," repeated Tom.It's like getting up instead of lying in bed crying.Gotta find something to do for myself—even if it's unpleasant: somehow it seemed to give me some comfort. Tom's expression was so determined that his aunt and uncle respected his decision. Some time later that morning Tom went upstairs to Mrs. Bartholomew's suite and rang the bell.Mrs. Bartholomew opened the door and looked at Tom face to face: she looked just as Tom had expected—a shriveled little old lady with white hair.What surprised Tom were her eyes: dark eyes, the blackness of which made Tom uneasy--and the way they looked at him.

"What?" she asked. "I'm sorry," said Tom. Mrs. Bartholomew interrupted him: "Your name is Tom, isn't it? Your uncle mentioned it. What's your last name?" "Longo," said Tom, "I've come to apologize—" "Tom Long..." Mrs. Bartholomew stretched out a hand, touched his arm with her fingertips, and exerted a little pressure, allowing herself to feel the fabric of his shirt, and the muscles beneath it. , and the bone beneath the muscle. "You're real: a real, flesh-and-blood boy, the Kitsons' nephew . . . last night at midnight—"

Not wanting to be intimidated by a queer old woman, Tom said, "I'm sorry about last night." "You suddenly screamed in the middle of the night and woke me up." "I said sorry." "You shouted," she said firmly, "you called a name." She lowered her voice: her tone sounded soft, happy, loving—Tom couldn't describe all that was in it Traits which he had never dreamed of in Mrs. Bartholomew. "Oh, Tom," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "don't you understand? You're calling me: I'm Hattie." The little old lady's words seemed meaningless to Tom, and only her black eyes made him feel involuntary.He let the old lady pull him into the door, whispering to him gently and happily.He came to the small living room of the suite, and what appeared in front of him was a gothic barometer that looked familiar.

"It's the barometer in the hall in Melbourne," said Tom dreamily. The old lady pushed him into the living room. On the mantelpiece in front of him was a large yellowed portrait of a young man. The face was so ordinary that you could remember it once you saw it, and you could Recognize it again.Tom recognized the face: he had seen it last in the moonlight. "That's little Barty," he said. "Yes," said Mrs. Bartholomew, "this photograph was taken shortly after our marriage." Tom struggled to understand the meaning of the sentence: Barty Jr. was the same person as the late Mr. Bartholomew.

He sat down heavily on a chair, facing her. "You married Barty Jr.? Who were you then?" "I've been telling you, Tom," said Mrs. Bartholomew patiently, "that I'm Hattie." "But Hattie was a little girl in Queen Victoria's reign." "I'm a Victorian," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "What's so strange about that?" "But Queen Victoria came to the throne in 1837." "That was long before I was born," said Mrs. Bartholomew. "I was born towards the end of the Queen's reign. She was an old lady when I was a little girl. I was a late Victorian people."

"But I don't understand," said Tom, "I don't understand...the garden is gone...but the barometer is still here...and you say you're Hattie...I skated with Hattie the other day in Ely-then That was the last time we saw each other - what's happened since then?" "Last time?" said Mrs. Bartholomew. "No, Tom, that wasn't the last time I saw you. Have you forgotten?" She looked at Tom intently. "It seems you don't quite know our story, Tom: I must tell you." So she began to talk, and Tom listened, not caring much at first for what she said, but only for the way she spoke, and studied her, and studied her manners and speech.Her shining black eyes were no doubt identical to Hatty's, and now he kept noticing a certain gesture, a certain tone of voice, a certain laugh which reminded him of the little girl in the garden.

Mrs. Bartholomew's story had just begun when Tom leaned forward suddenly and said softly, "You're that Hattie--you're Hattie! You really are Hattie!" Mrs. Bartholomew simply stopped talking, smiled at him, and nodded.