第9章 II(3)

The boy grew up in great loneliness. He worshipped his mother, and she was fond of him. But she was dignified and reticent, and pathos, like tattle, was disgusting to her. She was afraid of intimacy, in case it led to confidences and tears, and so all her life she held her son at a little distance. Her kindness and unselfishness knew no limits, but if he tried to be dramatic and thank her, she told him not to be a little goose. And so the only person he came to know at all was himself. He would play Halma against himself. He would conduct solitary conversations, in which one part of him asked and another part answered. It was an exciting game, and concluded with the formula: "Good-bye.

Thank you. I am glad to have met you. I hope before long we shall enjoy another chat." And then perhaps he would sob for loneliness, for he would see real people--real brothers, real friends--doing in warm life the things he had pretended. "Shall Iever have a friend?" he demanded at the age of twelve. "I don't see how. They walk too fast. And a brother I shall never have."("No loss," interrupted Widdrington.

"But I shall never have one, and so I quite want one, even now.")When he was thirteen Mr. Elliot entered on his illness. The pretty rooms in town would not do for an invalid, and so he came back to his home. One of the first consequences was that Rickie was sent to a public school. Mrs. Elliot did what she could, but she had no hold whatever over her husband.

"He worries me," he declared. "He's a joke of which I have got tired.""Would it be possible to send him to a private tutor's?""No," said Mr. Elliot, who had all the money. "Coddling.""I agree that boys ought to rough it; but when a boy is lame and very delicate, he roughs it sufficiently if he leaves home.

Rickie can't play games. He doesn't make friends. He isn't brilliant. Thinking it over, I feel that as it's like this, we can't ever hope to give him the ordinary education. Perhaps you could think it over too." No.

"I am sure that things are best for him as they are. The day-school knocks quite as many corners off him as he can stand.

He hates it, but it is good for him. A public school will not be good for him. It is too rough. Instead of getting manly and hard, he will--""My head, please."

Rickie departed in a state of bewildered misery, which was scarcely ever to grow clearer.

Each holiday he found his father more irritable, and a little weaker. Mrs. Elliot was quickly growing old. She had to manage the servants, to hush the neighbouring children, to answer the correspondence, to paper and re-paper the rooms--and all for the sake of a man whom she did not like, and who did not conceal his dislike for her. One day she found Rickie tearful, and said rather crossly, "Well, what is it this time?"He replied, "Oh, mummy, I've seen your wrinkles your grey hair--I'm unhappy."

Sudden tenderness overcame her, and she cried, "My darling, what does it matter? Whatever does it matter now?"He had never known her so emotional. Yet even better did he remember another incident. Hearing high voices from his father's room, he went upstairs in the hope that the sound of his tread might stop them. Mrs. Elliot burst open the door, and seeing him, exclaimed, "My dear! If you please, he's hit me." She tried to laugh it off, but a few hours later he saw the bruise which the stick of the invalid had raised upon his mother's hand.