“It’s a little difficult for me,” said Mrs. Elliot, pacing vigorously up and down the room, and more and more did her black dress seem a mockery. “In some ways you ought to be consulted: nearly all the money is left to you, as you must hear some time or other. But in other ways you’re only a boy. What am I to do?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, appearing more helpless and unhelpful than he really was.
“For instance, would you like me to arrange things exactly as I like?”
“Oh do!” he exclaimed, thinking this a most brilliant suggestion.
“The very nicest thing of all.” And he added, in his half-pedantic, half-pleasing way, “I shall be as wax in your hands, mamma.”
She smiled. “Very well, darling. You shall be.” And she pressed him lovingly, as though she would mould him into something beautiful.
For the next few days great preparations were in the air. She went to see his father’s sister, the gifted and vivacious Aunt Emily. They were to live in the country—somewhere right in the country, with grass and trees up to the door, and birds singing everywhere, and a tutor. For he was not to go back to school. Unbelievable! He was never to go back to school, and the head-master had written saying that he regretted the step, but that possibly it was a wise one.
It was raw weather, and Mrs. Elliot watched over him with ceaseless tenderness. It seemed as if she could not do too much to shield him and to draw him nearer to her.
“Put on your greatcoat, dearest,” she said to him.
“I don’t think I want it,” answered Rickie, remembering that he was now fifteen.