_ "Now, Master Cyril," Amy protested, "will you leave that fire
alone? It's not you that can mend my fires."
A boy of nine, great and heavy for his years, with a full face and
very short hair, bent over the smoking grate. It was about five
minutes to eight on a chilly morning after Easter. Amy, hastily
clad in blue, with a rough brown apron, was setting the breakfast
table. The boy turned his head, still bending.
"Shut up, Ame," he replied, smiling. Life being short, he usually
called her Ame when they were alone together. "Or I'll catch you
one in the eye with the poker."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Amy. "And you know
your mother told you to wash your feet this morning, and you
haven't done. Fine clothes is all very well, but--"
"Who says I haven't washed my feet?" asked Cyril, guiltily.
Amy's mention of fine clothes referred to the fact that he was
that morning wearing his Sunday suit for the first time on a week-
day.
"I say you haven't," said Amy.
She was more than three times his age still, but they had been
treating each other as intellectual equals for years.
"And how do you know?" asked Cyril, tired of the fire.
"I know," said Amy.
"Well, you just don't, then!" said Cyril. "And what about YOUR
feet? I should be sorry to see your feet, Ame."
Amy was excusably annoyed. She tossed her head. "My feet are as
clean as yours any day," she said. "And I shall tell your mother."
But he would not leave her feet alone, and there ensued one of
those endless monotonous altercations on a single theme which
occur so often between intellectual equals when one is a young son
of the house and the other an established servant who adores him.
Refined minds would have found the talk disgusting, but the
sentiment of disgust seemed to be unknown to either of the
wranglers. At last, when Amy by superior tactics had cornered him,
Cyril said suddenly:
"Oh, go to hell!"
Amy banged down the spoon for the bacon gravy. "Now I shall tell
your mother. Mark my words, this time I SHALL tell your mother."
Cyril felt that in truth he had gone rather far. He was perfectly
sure that Amy would not tell his mother. And yet, supposing that
by some freak of her nature she did! The consequences would be
unutterable; the consequences would more than extinguish his
private glory in the use of such a dashing word. So he laughed, a
rather silly, giggling laugh, to reassure himself.
"You daren't," he said.
"Daren't I?" she said grimly. "You'll see. _I_ don't know where
you learn! It fair beats me. But it isn't Amy Bates as is going to
be sworn at. As soon as ever your mother comes into this room!"
The door at the foot of the stairs creaked and Constance came into
the room. She was wearing a dress of majenta merino, and a gold
chain descended from her neck over her rich bosom. She had
scarcely aged in five years. It would have been surprising if she
had altered much, for the years had passed over her head at an
incredible rate. To her it appeared only a few months since
Cyril's first and last party.
"Are you all ready, my pet? Let me look at you." Constance greeted
the boy with her usual bright, soft energy.
Cyril glanced at Amy, who averted her head, putting spoons into
three saucers.
"Yes, mother," he replied in a new voice.
"Did you do what I told you?"
"Yes, mother," he said simply.
"That's right."
Amy made a faint noise with her lips, and departed.
He was saved once more. He said to himself that never again would
he permit his soul to be disturbed by any threat of old Ame's.
Constance's hand descended into her pocket and drew out a hard
paper packet, which she clapped on to her son's head.
"Oh, mother!" He pretended that she had hurt him, and then he
opened the packet. It contained Congleton butterscotch, reputed a
harmless sweetmeat.
"Good!" he cried, "good! Oh! Thanks, mother."
"Now don't begin eating them at once."
"Just one, mother."
"No! And how often have I told you to keep your feet off that
fender. See how it's bent. And it's nobody but you."
"Sorry."
"It's no use being sorry if you persist in doing it."
"Oh, mother, I had such a funny dream!"
They chatted until Amy came up the stairs with tea and bacon. The
fire had developed from black to clear red.
"Run and tell father that breakfast is ready."
After a little delay a spectacled man of fifty, short and
stoutish, with grey hair and a small beard half grey and half
black, entered from the shop. Samuel had certainly very much aged,
especially in his gestures, which, however, were still quick. He
sat down at once--his wife and son were already seated--and served
the bacon with the rapid assurance of one who needs not to inquire
about tastes and appetites. Not a word was said, except a brief
grace by Samuel. But there was no restraint. Samuel had a mild,
benignant air. Constance's eyes were a fountain of cheerfulness.
The boy sat between them and ate steadily.
Mysterious creature, this child, mysteriously growing and growing
in the house! To his mother he was a delicious joy at all times
save when he disobeyed his father. But now for quite a
considerable period there had been no serious collision. The boy
seemed to be acquiring virtue as well as sense. And really he was
charming. So big, truly enormous (every one remarked on it), and
yet graceful, lithe, with a smile that could ravish. And he was
distinguished in his bearing. Without depreciating Samuel in her
faithful heart, Constance saw plainly the singular differences
between Samuel and the boy. Save that he was dark, and that his
father's 'dangerous look' came into those childish eyes
occasionally, Cyril had now scarcely any obvious resemblance to
his father. He was a Baines. This naturally deepened Constance's
family pride. Yes, he was mysterious to Constance, though probably
not more so than any other boy to any other parent. He was equally
mysterious to Samuel, but otherwise Mr. Povey had learned to
regard him in the light of a parcel which he was always attempting
to wrap up in a piece of paper imperceptibly too small. When he
successfully covered the parcel at one corner it burst out at
another, and this went on for ever, and he could never get the
string on. Nevertheless, Mr. Povey had unabated confidence in his
skill as a parcel-wrapper. The boy was strangely subtle at times,
but then at times he was astoundingly ingenuous, and then his
dodges would not deceive the dullest. Mr. Povey knew himself more
than a match for his son. He was proud of him because he regarded
him as not an ordinary boy; he took it as a matter of course that
his boy should not be an ordinary boy. He never, or very rarely,
praised Cyril. Cyril thought of his father as a man who, in
response to any request, always began by answering with a
thoughtful, serious 'No, I'm afraid not.'
"So you haven't lost your appetite!" his mother commented.
Cyril grinned. "Did you expect me to, mother?"
"Let me see," said Samuel, as if vaguely recalling an unimportant
fact. "It's to-day you begin to go to school, isn't it?"
"I wish father wouldn't be such a chump!" Cyril reflected. And,
considering that this commencement of school (real school, not a
girls' school, as once) had been the chief topic in the house for
days, weeks; considering that it now occupied and filled all
hearts, Cyril's reflection was excusable.
"Now, there's one thing you must always remember, my boy," said
Mr. Povey. "Promptness. Never be late either in going to school or
in coming home. And in order that you may have no excuse"--Mr.
Povey pressed on the word 'excuse' as though condemning Cyril in
advance--"here's something for you!" He said the last words
quickly, with a sort of modest shame.
It was a silver watch and chain.
Cyril was staggered. So also was Constance, for Mr. Povey could
keep his own counsel. At long intervals he would prove, thus, that
he was a mighty soul, capable of sublime deeds. The watch was the
unique flowering of Mr. Povey's profound but harsh affection. It
lay on the table like a miracle. This day was a great day, a
supremely exciting day in Cyril's history, and not less so in the
history of his parents.
The watch killed its owner's appetite dead.
Routine was ignored that morning. Father did not go back into the
shop. At length the moment came when father put on his hat and
overcoat to take Cyril, and Cyril's watch and satchel, to the
Endowed School, which had quarters in the Wedgwood Institution
close by. A solemn departure, and Cyril could not pretend by his
demeanour that it was not! Constance desired to kiss him, but
refrained. He would not have liked it. She watched them from the
window. Cyril was nearly as tall as his father; that is to say,
not nearly as tall, but creeping up his father's shoulder. She
felt that the eyes of the town must be on the pair. She was very
happy, and nervous.
At dinner-time a triumph seemed probable, and at tea-time, when
Cyril came home under a mortar-board hat and with a satchel full
of new books and a head full of new ideas, the triumph was
actually and definitely achieved. He had been put into the third
form, and he announced that he should soon be at the top of it. He
was enchanted with the life of school; he liked the other boys,
and it appeared that the other boys liked him. The fact was that,
with a new silver watch and a packet of sweets, he had begun his
new career in the most advantageous circumstances. Moreover, he
possessed qualities which ensure success at school. He was big,
and easy, with a captivating smile and a marked aptitude to learn
those things which boys insist on teaching to their new comrades.
He had muscle, a brave demeanour, and no conceit.
During tea the parlour began, to accustom itself to a new
vocabulary, containing such words as 'fellows,' 'kept in,'m'
lines,' 'rot,' 'recess,' 'jolly.' To some of these words the
parents, especially Mr. Povey, had an instinct to object, but they
could not object, somehow they did not seem to get an opportunity
to object; they were carried away on the torrent, and after all,
their excitement and pleasure in the exceeding romantic novelty of
existence were just as intense and nearly as ingenuous as their
son's.
He demonstrated that unless he was allowed to stay up later than
aforetime he would not be able to do his home-work, and hence
would not keep that place in the school to which his talents
entitled him. Mr. Povey suggested, but only with half a heart,
that he should get up earlier in the morning. The proposal fell
flat. Everybody knew and admitted that nothing save the scorpions
of absolute necessity, or a tremendous occasion such as that
particular morning's, would drive Cyril from his bed until the
smell of bacon rose to him from the kitchen. The parlour table was
consecrated to his lessons. It became generally known that 'Cyril
was doing his lessons.' His father scanned the new text-books
while Cyril condescendingly explained to him that all others were
superseded and worthless. His father contrived to maintain an air
of preserving his mental equilibrium, but not his mother; she gave
it up, she who till that day had under his father's direction
taught him nearly all that he knew, and Cyril passed above her
into regions of knowledge where she made no pretence of being able
to follow him.
When the lessons were done, and Cyril had wiped his fingers on
bits of blotting-paper, and his father had expressed qualified
approval and had gone into the shop, Cyril said to his mother,
with that delicious hesitation which overtook him sometimes:
"Mother."
"Well, my pet."
"I want you to do something for me."
"Well, what is it?"
"No, you must promise."
"I'll do it if I can."
"But you CAN. It isn't doing. It's NOT doing."
"Come, Cyril, out with it."
"I don't want you to come in and look at me after I'm asleep any
more."
"But, you silly boy, what difference can it make to you if you're
asleep?"
"I don't want you to. It's like as if I was a baby. You'll have to
stop doing it some day, and so you may as well stop now."
It was thus that he meant to turn his back on his youth.
She smiled. She was incomprehensibly happy. She continued to
smile.
"Now you'll promise, won't you, mother?"
She rapped him on the head with her thimble, lovingly. He took the
gesture for consent.
"You are a baby," she murmured.
"Now I shall trust you," he said, ignoring this. "Say 'honour
bright.'"
"Honour bright."
With what a long caress her eyes followed him, as he went up to
bed on his great sturdy legs! She was thankful that school had not
contaminated her adorable innocent. If she could have been Ame for
twenty-four hours, she perhaps would not have hesitated to put
butter into his mouth lest it should melt.
Mr. Povey and Constance talked late and low that night. They could
neither of them sleep; they had little desire to sleep.
Constance's face said to her husband: "I've always stuck up for
that boy, in spite of your severities, and you see how right I
was!" And Mr. Povey's face said: "You see now the brilliant
success of my system. You see how my educational theories have
justified themselves. Never been to a school before, except that
wretched little dame's school, and he goes practically straight to
the top of the third form--at nine years of age!" They discussed
his future. There could be no sign of lunacy in discussing his
future up to a certain point, but each felt that to discuss the
ultimate career of a child nine years old would not be the act of
a sensible parent; only foolish parents would be so fond. Yet each
was dying to discuss his ultimate career. Constance yielded first
to the temptation, as became her. Mr. Povey scoffed, and then, to
humour Constance, yielded also. The matter was soon fairly on the
carpet. Constance was relieved to find that Mr. Povey had no
thought whatever of putting Cyril in the shop. No; Mr. Povey did
not desire to chop wood with a razor. Their son must and would
ascend. Doctor! Solicitor! Barrister! Not barrister--barrister was
fantastic. When they had argued for about half an hour Mr. Povey
intimated suddenly that the conversation was unworthy of their
practical commonsense, and went to sleep. _