And Boy shrugged his shoulders likewise and smiled at nothing, and said,—
“Qu’est que c’est la vie? Une comédie! Et Dieu s’amuse!”
CHAPTER VIII
The steady pulse of time, which goes on mercilessly beating with calm inflexibility, regardless of all the lesser human pulses that hurriedly beat with it for a little while and then cease for ever, had measured out six whole years since Boy went to “skool” in France, and he was now sixteen, and also one of the foremost scholars at a well-known English military school. He had stayed in France for over a year, his mother having gone there to spend his holidays with him, rather than allow him to return to England and “spoil his French accent,” as she said. Poor Boy! He never had much of an accent, and what he learned of French was very soon forgotten when he came home. But what he learned of morals in France was not forgotten, and took deep root in his character. When he came back to England he found his father settled in London again, and bent on a sudden new scheme of education for him. The Honourable Jim was beginning to suffer severely from his constant unlimited potations; he was looking very bloated and heavy, and his eyes had an unpleasant fixed glare in them occasionally, which to a medical observer, boded no good. He had almost died in one bad fit of delirium tremens, and it was during the gradual process of his recovery from this attack, when in a condition of maudlin sentiment and general shakiness, that he decided on a public military training school as the next element in Boy’s education.
“Poor little chap!” he whimpered to the physician who had just blandly told him that he would be dead on whisky in two years,—“Poor little chap! I’ve been a bad father to him, doctor,—yes, I have—d——n it! I’ve left his bringing up to my wife—and she’s a d——d fool—always was—married her for her looks; ain’t much of ’em now, eh? ha-ha! all gone to seed! Well, well!—we’re here to-day and gone to-morrow!” and he rolled his confused head to and fro on his pillows, smiling feebly,—“That’s what the old-fashioned clowns used to say in the old-fashioned pantomimes. But by Jove! I’ll turn over a new leaf—Boy shall be properly educated, d——n it! He shall!”
So he swore—and so he resolved, and for once carried his way over the expostulations of his wife, who had some other “scheme” in view for “my son’s advancement,” but what scheme it was she was unable to state clearly. No such idea crossed either of their minds as the fact that Boy was already educated, so far as character and susceptibility of temperament were concerned. Both father and mother were too ignorant to realize that whatever good or bad there was in his disposition, was already too fully developed to be either checked or diverted from its course. And when the lad went to the school decided upon, it was with exactly the same weariness, indifference and cynicism with which he had gone to France. He had a bright brain, and soon became fully conscious of his powers. He mastered his lessons easily,—and as he had a sort of dogged determination to stand high in his classes, he succeeded. But his success gave him no joy. His vague fancies about the great possibilities of life, had all vanished. In the French school, among the boys of all ages and dispositions he met there, he had learned that the chief object of living was to please one’s Self. To do all that seemed agreeable to one’s Self—and never mind the rest! For example,—one could believe in God as long as one wished to,—but when this same God did not arrange things as suited one’s Self, then let God go. And Boy took this lesson well to heart,—it coloured and emphasized all the other “subjects” for which he “crammed” steadily, filling up his exam. papers and gaining thousands of marks for the parrot-like proficiency in such classical forms of study as were bound to be of no use whatever to him in the practical business of life. He was training to be an officer—and in consequence of this, was learning precisely everything an officer need not know. But as this is too frequently the system of national education nowadays in all professions, particularly the military, the least said about it the better. Boy, like other boys, did just what he was ordered to do, learned just what he was required to learn, with steady dogged persistence but no enthusiasm, and spared no pains to grind himself down into the approved ordinary pattern of an English college boy, and for this he made a complete sacrifice of all his originality. His studies fagged him, but he showed nothing of his weariness, and equally said nothing. He grew thin and tall and weak and nervous-looking—and one of the chief troubles of his life was his mother. Always dutiful to her, he did his best to be affectionate,—for he was old enough now to feel very sorry for her,—sorry and ashamed as well. Truth to tell, the most casual stranger looking at Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, could not but feel a timid reluctance to be seen in her company. Always inclined to fat, she had grown fatter than ever,—always loving slothful ease, she had grown lazier; her clothes were a mere bundle hooked loosely round her large form, and with ill-cut, non-fitting garments, she affected a “fashionable” hat, which created a wild and almost alarming effect whenever she put it on. Boy blushed deeply each time he saw her thus arrayed. In fact he often became painfully agitated when passers-by would stare at his mother with a derisive smile,—always over-sensitive, he could scarcely keep the tears out of his eyes. He lived in terror lest she should fulfil her frequently expressed intention of visiting his college to see the cricket matches or sham fights which often took place in the grounds—for if she did come, he would have to walk about with her and introduce her perhaps to some of his school-fellows. He dreaded this possibility, for he could not but compare her with the neat, and even elegantly dressed ladies who came at stated times to the school, and were proudly presented by various boys to their masters as “my mother.” How dreadful it would be if he had to own that the large lolling bundle of clothes, wispy hair and foolish face was “my mother”! It was not as if she had not the means to be tidy,—she had,—and as Boy often noticed, even some of the poorest women kept themselves clean and sweet. Why could not his mother look as tidy for instance as their own servant-maid when she went out on Sunday? He could not imagine. And he dared not ask her to be more careful of her personal appearance in order to save him shame; she would of course take the suggestion as a piece of gross impertinence.
And did he ever think of Miss Letty? Yes,—often and often he thought of her, but in a dull, hopeless, far-away fashion, as of one who had passed out of his life, never to be seen again. Ages seemed to have rolled by since his childhood,—and the face and figure of his old friend were pretty nearly as dimly indistinct in his memory as the shape and look of his once adored cow “Dunny.” He heard of her now and then,—for her course of life and action had considerably astonished and irritated Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, who frequently found occasion to make unkind remarks on the “fads” of that “silly old maid.” However, Miss Letty had no “fads,”—she merely made it a rule to be useful wherever she could,—and if she thought she saw a line of work and duty laid down for her to follow, she invariably followed it. When she had gone out to the States with Major Desmond as temporary chaperone to his niece, she met with so much kindness and hospitality from the Americans,—so much instant appreciation of her good breeding, grace and fine qualities, that she was quite affected by it,—and she had only been two or three months in New York, when she found to her amazement and gratitude that she had hosts of friends. Young girls adored her,—young men came to her with their confidences,—and all the elder women, married and unmarried, came round her, attracted by her sweetness, tactfulness, simplicity of manner and absolute sincerity. “Our English Miss Letty” was her new sobriquet,—and Major Desmond’s young niece, Violet Morrison, always called her “my own Miss Letty.” Violet was a very sweet, engaging child, and when she went to the school in New Jersey selected for her, she said to her uncle coaxingly on the day he left her there,—
“Wouldn’t it be nice if Miss Letty lived over here while I am at school? I could always go to her for my holidays then.”
The Major pinched her soft round cheek and kissed her and called her a “little baggage,”—did she suppose, he asked, that Miss Letty was going to absent herself from England all that while just to make holidays for a chit of a girl? But he thought about the matter a good deal, not from any selfish point of view, but solely on account of the happiness of the dear woman he had secretly loved so long, and whom he meant to love to the end. Sitting meditatively in one of the luxurious New York clubs, of which, with the ready courtesy Americans show to their stranger-visitors, he had been made an honorary member, the Major turned Miss Letty’s position over in his mind. She was all alone in the world, and though she was rich, he knew her nature well enough to be sure that in her case riches did not compensate for solitude. She had certain friends in England,—but none of them were half as sympathetic, warm-hearted or kindly, as those she had made so quickly in America. She had been disappointed in her love for Boy,—and if she tried to intervene in the further disposition of his fate, she would probably be disappointed again. Now here, in America, was Violet,—studying hard to become a bright, clever, sweet woman,—to learn to talk well and to know thoroughly what she was talking about—not to be a mere figure-head of femininity, just capable of wearing a gown and having a baby. Something more than that was demanded for Violet,—the Major wanted her to be brought up to understand the beauty and satisfaction of an impersonal life—a life that should widen, not narrow with experience,—and who could be a more faithful home instructress of unselfishness and virtue than Miss Letty? Yes; it would certainly mean a great and lasting benefit to Violet if she could have the blessing of Miss Letty’s influence and affectionate guidance in the opening out of her young life. And what of Miss Letty herself?
“Give that dear woman something to do for somebody else,” mused the Major, “and she’s perfectly happy. It’s only for herself she doesn’t care to do anything. Now I shall make her life best worth living, if I can fill it with duties—that is, if I can only persuade her to accept the duties.”