Part 10 (1/2)

It was ten o'clock before he got his pony out of the livery barn and started for home. Even on the way, he refused to imagine what would happen. He entered the house quietly, as though to tell his father that it was his next move, and setting his bundle of books on a chair, he glanced at his mother. She was at the stove, where an armful of kindling had been set off to take the chill out of the house. She looked at him mysteriously, as though he were a ghost of some lost one who had strayed in from a graveyard, but she said nothing. Bill did not even nod to her.

He fumbled with his books, as though to keep them from slipping to the floor when, quite obviously, they were not even inclined to leave the chair. Rose let her eyes fall and then slide, under half-closed lids, until they had Martin in her view. She looked at him appealingly, but he was staring at a paper which he was not reading. He had been in this chair for two hours, without a word, pretending to be studying printed words which his mind refused to register. Martin had done Bill's share of the ch.o.r.es, with unbelief in his heart. He had never imagined such a thing. Who would have thought it could happen--a son of his!

His wife broke the silence with:

”What happened, Billy? Were you sick?”

”No, mother, I wasn't sick.”

Martin was still looking at his paper, which his fists gripped tightly.

”Then you just couldn't get home sooner, could you? Something you couldn't help kept you away, didn't it?”

Bill shook his head slowly. ”No,” he answered easily. ”I could have come home much sooner.”

”Billy, dear, what DID happen?” She was beginning to feel panicky; he was courting distress.

”Nothing, mother. I just felt like staying in the reading-room and reading--”

”Oh, you HAD to do some lessons, didn't you! Miss Roberts should have known better--”

”I didn't have to stay in--I wanted to.”

Martin still kept silent, his eyes looking over the newspaper wide open, staring, the muscles of his jaw relaxed. The boy was quick to sense that he was winning--the simple, non-resistance of the lamb was confounding his father.

”I wanted to stay. I read a book, and then I took a walk, and then I dropped in at the restaurant for a bite, and then I walked around some more, and then I went to a movie.”

”Billy, what are you saying?”

Martin, slowly putting down his paper, remarked without stressing a syllable:

”You had better go to bed, Bill; at once, without arguing.”

Bill moved towards the parlor, as though to obey. At the door he stopped a moment and said: ”I wasn't arguing; I was just answering mother. She wanted to know.”

”She does not want to know.”

”Then I wanted her to know that I don't intend to work after school any more. I'll do my ch.o.r.es in the morning, but that's all. From now on n.o.body can MAKE me do anything.”

”I am not asking you to do anything but go to bed.”

”I don't intend to come home tomorrow afternoon until I'm ready. Or any afternoon. And if you don't like it--”

”Billy!” his mother cried; ”Billy! go to bed!”

The boy obeyed.

Bill was fifteen when this took place. The impossible had happened. He had challenged the master and had won. Even after he had turned in, his father remained silent, feeling a secret respect for him; mysteriously he had grown suddenly to manhood. Martin was too mental to let anger express itself in violence and, besides, strangely enough, he felt no desire to punish; there was still the dislike he had always felt for him--his son who was the son of this woman, but though he would never have confessed aloud the satisfaction it gave him, he began to see there was in the boy more than a little of himself.

”Poor Billy,” his mother apologized; ”he's tired.”