Part 59 (2/2)
And Edwin felt angry with Hilda for having quite unjustifiably a.s.sumed that George had gone to school on his bicycle. Ought she not to have had the ordinary gumption to a.s.sure herself, before worrying, that the lad's bicycle was not in the shed? Incredible thoughtlessness! All these alarms for nothing!
”Then why are you so late?” Hilda demanded, diverting to George her indignation at Edwin's unuttered but yet conveyed criticism of herself.
”Kept in.”
”All this time?” Hilda questioned, suspiciously.
George sullenly nodded.
”What for?”
”Latin.”
”Homework? Again?” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Edwin. ”Why hadn't you done it properly?”
”I had a headache last night. And I've got one to-day.”
”Another of your Latin headaches!” said Edwin sarcastically. There was nothing, except possibly cod liver oil, that George detested more than Edwin's serious sarcasm.
The elders glanced at one another and glanced away. Both had the same fear--the dreadful fear that George might be developing the worse characteristics of his father. Both had vividly in mind the fact that this boy was the son of George Cannon. They never mentioned to each other either the fear or the fact; they dared not. But each knew the thoughts of the other. The boy was undoubtedly crafty; he could conceal subtle designs under a simple exterior; he was also undoubtedly secretive. The recent changes in his disposition had put Edwin and Hilda on their guard, and every time young George displayed cunning, or economised the truth, or lied, the fear visited them. ”I hope he'll turn out all right!” Hilda had said once. Edwin had nearly replied: ”What are you worrying about? The sons of honest men are often rascals. Why on earth shouldn't the son of a rascal be an honest man?” But he had only said, with good-humoured impatience: ”Of course he'll turn out all right!” Not that he himself was convinced.
Edwin now attacked the boy gloomily:
”You didn't seem to have much of a headache when you came in just now.”
It was true.
But George suddenly burst into tears. His headaches were absolutely genuine. The emptiness of the kitchen and the general queer look of things in the house had, however, by their promise of adventurous happenings, caused him to forget his headache altogether, and the discovery of the new indiarubber had been like a tonic to a convalescent. The menacing att.i.tude of the elders had now brought about a relapse. The headache established itself as his chief physical sensation. His chief moral sensation was that of a terrible grievance.
He did not often cry; he had not indeed cried for about a year. But to-night there was something nervous in the very air, and the sob took him unawares. The first sob having prostrated all resistance, others followed victoriously, and there was no stopping them. He did not quite know why he should have been more liable to cry on this particular occasion than on certain others, and he was rather ashamed; on the other hand it was with an almost malicious satisfaction that he perceived the troubling effect of his tears on the elders. They were obviously in a quandary. Serve them right!
”It's my eyes,” he blubbered. ”I told you these specs would never suit me. But you wouldn't believe me, and the headmaster won't believe me.”
The discovery that George's eyesight was defective, about two months earlier, had led to a desperate but of course hopeless struggle on his part against the wearing of spectacles. It was curious that in the struggle he had never even mentioned his strongest objection to spectacles,--namely, the fact that Bert Benbow wore spectacles.
”Why didn't you tell us?” Edwin demanded.
Between sobs George replied with overwhelming disillusioned disgust:
”What's the good of telling you anything? You only think I'm codding.”
And he pa.s.sed upstairs, apparently the broken victim of fate and parents, but in reality triumphant. His triumph was such that neither Edwin nor Hilda dared even to protest against the use of such an inexcusable word as 'codding.'
Hilda went into the kitchen, and Edwin rather aimlessly followed her.
He felt incompetent. He could do nothing except carry trays, and he had no desire to carry trays. Neither spoke. Hilda was bending over the fire, then she arranged the grid in front of the fire to hold a tin, and she greased the tin. He thought she looked very wistful, for all the somewhat bitter st.u.r.diness of her demeanour. Tertius Ingpen was due for the evening; she had no servants--through her own fault; and now a new phase had arrived in the unending responsibility for George's welfare.
He knew that she was blaming him on account of George. He knew that she believed in the sincerity of George's outburst; he believed in it himself. The spectacles were wrong; the headache was genuine. And he, Edwin, was guilty of the spectacles because he had forced Hilda, by his calm bantering commonsense, to consult a small local optician of good reputation.
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