_ The removal of the Endowed School to more commodious premises in
the shape of Shawport Hall, an ancient mansion with fifty rooms
and five acres of land round about it, was not a change that quite
pleased Samuel or Constance. They admitted the hygienic
advantages, but Shawport Hall was three-quarters of a mile distant
from St. Luke's Square--in the hollow that separates Bursley from
its suburb of Hillport; whereas the Wedgwood Institution was
scarcely a minute away. It was as if Cyril, when he set off to
Shawport Hall of a morning, passed out of their sphere of
influence. He was leagues off, doing they knew not what. Further,
his dinner-hour was cut short by the extra time needed for the
journey to and fro, and he arrived late for tea; it may be said
that he often arrived very late for tea; the whole machinery of
the meal was disturbed. These matters seemed to Samuel and
Constance to be of tremendous import, seemed to threaten the very
foundations of existence. Then they grew accustomed to the new
order, and wondered sometimes, when they passed the Wedgwood
Institution and the insalubrious Cock Yard--once sole playground
of the boys--that the school could ever have 'managed' in the
narrow quarters once allotted to it.
Cyril, though constantly successful at school, a rising man, an
infallible bringer-home of excellent reports, and a regular taker
of prizes, became gradually less satisfactory in the house. He was
'kept in' occasionally, and although his father pretended to hold
that to be kept in was to slur the honour of a spotless family,
Cyril continued to be kept in; a hardened sinner, lost to shame.
But this was not the worst. The worst undoubtedly was that Cyril
was 'getting rough.' No definite accusation could be laid against
him; the offence was general, vague, everlasting; it was in all he
did and said, in every gesture and movement. He shouted, whistled,
sang, stamped, stumbled, lunged. He omitted such empty rites as
saying 'Yes' or 'Please,' and wiping his nose. He replied gruffly
and nonchalantly to polite questions, or he didn't reply until the
questions were repeated, and even then with a 'lost' air that was
not genuine. His shoelaces were a sad sight, and his finger-nails
no sight at all for a decent woman; his hair was as rough as his
conduct; hardly at the pistol's point could he be forced to put
oil on it. In brief, he was no longer the nice boy that he used to
be. He had unmistakably deteriorated. Grievous! But what can you
expect when YOUR boy is obliged, month after month and year after
year, to associate with other boys? After all, he was a GOOD boy,
said Constance, often to herself and now and then to Samuel. For
Constance, his charm was eternally renewed. His smile, his
frequent ingenuousness, his funny self-conscious gesture when he
wanted to 'get round' her--these characteristics remained; and his
pure heart remained; she could read that in his eyes. Samuel was
inimical to his tastes for sports and his triumphs therein. But
Constance had pride in all that. She liked to feel him and to gaze
at him, and to smell that faint, uncleanly odour of sweat that
hung in his clothes.
In this condition he reached the advanced age of thirteen. And his
parents, who despite their notion of themselves as wide-awake
parents were a simple pair, never suspected that his heart,
conceived to be still pure, had become a crawling, horrible mass
of corruption.
One day the head-master called at the shop. Now, to see a head-
master walking about the town during school-hours is a startling
spectacle, and is apt to give you the same uncanny sensation as
when, alone in a room, you think you see something move which
ought not to move. Mr. Povey was startled. Mr. Povey had a
thumping within his breast as he rubbed his hands and drew the
head-master to the private corner where his desk was. "What can I
do for you to-day?" he almost said to the head-master. But he did
not say it. The boot was emphatically not on that leg. The head-
master talked to Mr. Povey, in tones carefully low, for about a
quarter of an hour, and then he closed the interview. Mr. Povey
escorted him across the shop, and the head-master said with
ordinary loudness: "Of course it's nothing. But my experience is
that it's just as well to be on the safe side, and I thought I'd
tell you. Forewarned is forearmed. I have other parents to see."
They shook hands at the door. Then Mr. Povey stepped out on to the
pavement and, in front of the whole Square, detained an unwilling
head-master for quite another minute.
His face was deeply flushed as he returned into the shop. The
assistants bent closer over their work. He did not instantly rush
into the parlour and communicate with Constance. He had dropped
into a way of conducting many operations by his own unaided brain.
His confidence in his skill had increased with years. Further, at
the back of his mind, there had established itself a vision of Mr.
Povey as the seat of government and of Constance and Cyril as a
sort of permanent opposition. He would not have admitted that he
saw such a vision, for he was utterly loyal to his wife; but it
was there. This unconfessed vision was one of several causes which
had contributed to intensify his inherent tendency towards
Machiavellianism and secretiveness. He said nothing to Constance,
nothing to Cyril; but, happening to encounter Amy in the showroom,
he was inspired to interrogate her sharply. The result was that
they descended to the cellar together, Amy weeping. Amy was
commanded to hold her tongue. And as she went in mortal fear of
Mr. Povey she did hold her tongue.
Nothing occurred for several days. And then one morning--it was
Constance's birthday: children are nearly always horribly unlucky
in their choice of days for sin--Mr. Povey, having executed
mysterious movements in the shop after Cyril's departure to
school, jammed his hat on his head and ran forth in pursuit of
Cyril, whom he intercepted with two other boys, at the corner of
Oldcastle Street and Acre Passage.
Cyril stood as if turned into salt. "Come back home!" said Mr.
Povey, grimly; and for the sake of the other boys: "Please."
"But I shall be late for school, father," Cyril weakly urged.
"Never mind."
They passed through the shop together, causing a terrific
concealed emotion, and then they did violence to Constance by
appearing in the parlour. Constance was engaged in cutting straws
and ribbons to make a straw-frame for a water-colour drawing of a
moss-rose which her pure-hearted son had given her as a birthday
present.
"Why--what--?" she exclaimed. She said no more at the moment
because she was sure, from the faces of her men, that the time was
big with fearful events.
"Take your satchel off," Mr. Povey ordered coldly. "And your
mortar-board," he added with a peculiar intonation, as if glad
thus to prove that Cyril was one of those rude boys who have to be
told to take their hats off in a room.
"Whatever's amiss?" Constance murmured under her breath, as Cyril
obeyed the command. "Whatever's amiss?"
Mr. Povey made no immediate answer. He was in charge of these
proceedings, and was very anxious to conduct them with dignity and
with complete effectiveness. Little fat man over fifty, with a
wizened face, grey-haired and grey-bearded, he was as nervous as a
youth. His heart beat furiously. And Constance, the portly matron
who would never see forty again, was just as nervous as a girl.
Cyril had gone very white. All three felt physically sick.
"What money have you got in your pockets?" Mr. Povey demanded, as
a commencement.
Cyril, who had had no opportunity to prepare his case, offered no
reply.
"You heard what I said," Mr. Povey thundered.
"I've got three-halfpence," Cyril murmured glumly, looking down at
the floor. His lower lip seemed to hang precariously away from his
gums.
"Where did you get that from?"
"It's part of what mother gave me," said the boy.
"I did give him a threepenny bit last week," Constance put in
guiltily. "It was a long time since he had had any money."
"If you gave it him, that's enough," said Mr. Povey, quickly, and
to the boy: "That's all you've got?"
"Yes, father," said the boy.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, father."
Cyril was playing a hazardous game for the highest stakes, and
under grave disadvantages; and he acted for the best. He guarded
his own interests as well as he could.
Mr. Povey found himself obliged to take a serious risk. "Empty
your pockets, then."
Cyril, perceiving that he had lost that particular game, emptied
his pockets.
"Cyril," said Constance, "how often have I told you to change your
handkerchiefs oftener! Just look at this!"
Astonishing creature! She was in the seventh hell of sick
apprehension, and yet she said that!
After the handkerchief emerged the common schoolboy stock of
articles useful and magic, and then, last, a silver florin!
Mr. Povey felt relief.
"Oh, Cyril!" whimpered Constance.
"Give it your mother," said Mr. Povey.
The boy stepped forward awkwardly, and Constance, weeping, took
the coin.
"Please look at it, mother," said Mr. Povey. "And tell me if
there's a cross marked on it."
Constance's tears blurred the coin. She had to wipe her eyes.
"Yes," she whispered faintly. "There's something on it."
"I thought so," said Mr. Povey. "Where did you steal it from?" he
demanded.
"Out of the till," answered Cyril.
"Have you ever stolen anything out of the till before?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what."
"Yes, father."
"Take your hands out of your pockets and stand up straight, if you
can. How often?"
"I--I don't know, father."
"I blame myself," said Mr. Povey, frankly. "I blame myself. The
till ought always to be locked. All tills ought always to be
locked. But we felt we could trust the assistants. If anybody had
told me that I ought not to trust you, if anybody had told me that
my own son would be the thief, I should have--well, I don't know
what I should have said!"
Mr. Povey was quite justified in blaming himself. The fact was
that the functioning of that till was a patriarchal survival,
which he ought to have revolutionized, but which it had never
occurred to him to revolutionize, so accustomed to it was he. In
the time of John Baines, the till, with its three bowls, two for
silver and one for copper (gold had never been put into it), was
invariably unlocked. The person in charge of the shop took change
from it for the assistants, or temporarily authorized an assistant
to do so. Gold was kept in a small linen bag in a locked drawer of
the desk. The contents of the till were never checked by any
system of book-keeping, as there was no system of book-keeping;
when all transactions, whether in payment or receipt, are in cash-
-the Baineses never owed a penny save the quarterly wholesale
accounts, which were discharged instantly to the travellers--a
system of book-keeping is not indispensable. The till was situate
immediately at the entrance to the shop from the house; it was in
the darkest part of the shop, and the unfortunate Cyril had to
pass it every day on his way to school. The thing was a perfect
device for the manufacture of young criminals.
"And how have you been spending this money?" Mr. Povey inquired.
Cyril's hands slipped into his pockets again. Then, noticing the
lapse, he dragged them out.
"Sweets," said he.
"Anything else?"
"Sweets and things."
"Oh!" said Mr. Povey. "Well, now you can go down into the cinder-
cellar and bring up here all the things there are in that little
box in the corner. Off you go!"
And off went Cyril. He had to swagger through the kitchen.
"What did I tell you, Master Cyril?" Amy unwisely asked of him.
"You've copped it finely this time."
'Copped' was a word which she had learned from Cyril.
"Go on, you old bitch!" Cyril growled.
As he returned from the cellar, Amy said angrily:
"I told you I should tell your father the next time you called me
that, and I shall. You mark my words."
"Cant! cant!" he retorted. "Do you think I don't know who's been
canting? Cant! cant!"
Upstairs in the parlour Samuel was explaining the matter to his
wife. There had been a perfect epidemic of smoking in the school.
The head-master had discovered it and, he hoped, stamped it out.
What had disturbed the head-master far more than the smoking was
the fact that a few boys had been found to possess somewhat costly
pipes, cigar-holders, or cigarette-holders. The head-master, wily,
had not confiscated these articles; he had merely informed the
parents concerned. In his opinion the articles came from one
single source, a generous thief; he left the parents to ascertain
which of them had brought a thief into the world.
Further information Mr. Povey had culled from Amy, and there could
remain no doubt that Cyril had been providing his chums with the
utensils of smoking, the till supplying the means. He had told Amy
that the things which he secreted in the cellar had been presented
to him by blood-brothers. But Mr. Povey did not believe that.
Anyhow, he had marked every silver coin in the till for three
nights, and had watched the till in the mornings from behind the
merino-pile; and the florin on the parlour-table spoke of his
success as a detective.
Constance felt guilty on behalf of Cyril. As Mr. Povey outlined
his case she could not free herself from an entirely irrational
sensation of sin; at any rate of special responsibility. Cyril
seemed to be her boy and not Samuel's boy at all. She avoided her
husband's glance. This was very odd.
Then Cyril returned, and his parents composed their faces and he
deposited, next to the florin, a sham meerschaum pipe in a case, a
tobacco-pouch, a cigar of which one end had been charred but the
other not cut, and a half-empty packet of cigarettes without a
label.
Nothing could be hid from Mr. Povey. The details were distressing.
"So Cyril is a liar and a thief, to say nothing of this smoking!"
Mr. Povey concluded.
He spoke as if Cyril had invented strange and monstrous sins. But
deep down in his heart a little voice was telling him, as regards
the smoking, that HE had set the example. Mr. Baines had never
smoked. Mr. Critchlow never smoked. Only men like Daniel smoked.
Thus far Mr. Povey had conducted the proceedings to his own
satisfaction. He had proved the crime. He had made Cyril confess.
The whole affair lay revealed. Well--what next? Cyril ought to
have dissolved in repentance; something dramatic ought to have
occurred. But Cyril simply stood with hanging, sulky head, and
gave no sign of proper feeling.
Mr. Povey considered that, until something did happen, he must
improve the occasion.
"Here we have trade getting worse every day," said he (it was
true), "and you are robbing your parents to make a beast of
yourself, and corrupting your companions! I wonder your mother
never smelt you!"
"I never dreamt of such a thing!" said Constance, grievously.
Besides, a young man clever enough to rob a till is usually clever
enough to find out that the secret of safety in smoking is to use
cachous and not to keep the stuff in your pockets a minute longer
than you can help.
"There's no knowing how much money you have stolen," said Mr.
Povey. "A thief!"
If Cyril had stolen cakes, jam, string, cigars, Mr. Povey would
never have said 'thief' as he did say it. But money! Money was
different. And a till was not a cupboard or a larder. A till was a
till. Cyril had struck at the very basis of society.
"And on your mother's birthday!" Mr. Povey said further.
"There's one thing I can do!" he said. "I can burn all this. Built
on lies! How dared you?"
And he pitched into the fire--not the apparatus of crime, but the
water-colour drawing of a moss-rose and the straws and the blue
ribbon for bows at the corners.
"How dared you?" he repeated.
"You never gave me any money," Cyril muttered.
He thought the marking of coins a mean trick, and the dragging-in
of bad trade and his mother's birthday roused a familiar devil
that usually slept quietly in his breast.
"What's that you say?" Mr. Povey almost shouted.
"You never gave me any money," the devil repeated in a louder tone
than Cyril had employed.
(It was true. But Cyril 'had only to ask' and he would have
received all that was good for him.)
Mr. Povey sprang up. Mr. Povey also had a devil. The two devils
gazed at each other for an instant; and then, noticing that
Cyril's head was above Mr. Povey's, the elder devil controlled
itself. Mr. Povey had suddenly had as much drama as he wanted.
"Get away to bed!" said he with dignity.
Cyril went, defiantly.
"He's to have nothing but bread and water, mother," Mr. Povey
finished. He was, on the whole, pleased with himself.
Later in the day Constance reported, tearfully, that she had been
up to Cyril and that Cyril had wept. Which was to Cyril's credit.
But all felt that life could never be the same again. During the
remainder of existence this unspeakable horror would lift its
obscene form between them. Constance had never been so unhappy.
Occasionally, when by herself, she would rebel for a brief moment,
as one rebels in secret against a mummery which one is obliged to
treat seriously. "After all," she would whisper, "suppose he HAS
taken a few shillings out of the till! What then? What does it
matter?" But these moods of moral insurrection against society and
Mr. Povey were very transitory. They were come and gone in a
flash. _