Growth of a Man. Mazo de la Roche

hope Shaw will grow up to be a comfort to you, Cristabel,” said Aunt Becky. “But boys seldom do. You fasten all your hopes on them and wear yourself to the bone for them and they disappoint you.”

      “You’ll miss the train if we don’t get a move on,” said Luke.

      “Good-bye! Roger, that was a terrible sermon your minister preached!”

      “Good-bye, Jane, don’t worry about the girls!”

      “Good-bye, Pa!”

      “Good-bye, Grandpa and Grandma!”

      “Good-bye, Shaw! The child looks half asleep!”

      He stared after the democrat, then broke into a run. He ran as fast as he could down the farm lane, but he could not overtake it. It became a swiftly moving blur in the frosty twilight that followed the Indian-summer day. The hoofbeats of the two horses rang out loud and clear.

      He stopped stock-still. A thought pierced him. He had forgotten something—something he had wanted terribly to do! He had forgotten to show his mother the beautiful colored map he had drawn.

       CHAPTER V

      NOW Shaw gave his whole mind to his school work except for the brief hour of recreation at noon and on the way home from school. Then he played wildly, almost feverishly, as though he would force his body as he was forcing his mind. He and Ian became greater friends than ever; he and Louie Adams even more antagonistic. He would feel her round avid eyes boring into the back of his head in the classroom, and he would turn and discover her look of hate. In return he would screw his blunt features into as ferocious an expression as he could, forming with his lips the words—“Mean old pig Louie!” He would intensify his efforts to enter her class.

      Elspeth was still a little embarrassed in his presence. She had not forgotten the humiliation of having to take back the paintbox. But she liked him. He was sure of that. She had a clear little voice, and on the Friday afternoons when they had songs and recitations she would look straight at him when she sang, as though, singing, she had a confidence in herself she could not ordinarily attain. And Ian could recite as well as his father could preach from the pulpit. Shaw had a self-depreciatory admiration for them both.

      November was here and darkness fell swiftly on the countryside. By the time Shaw reached home from school the orchards and woods were dimly mysterious, the orange squares of lighted windows gleamed in the dusk. Perhaps a horse would come to the rail fence beside the lane and whinny to him in lonely recognition, but he would hasten on without turning his head. He was late. He would be scolded. And there were his chores to do.

      When he had finished with the carrying in of wood and water he would open the oven door and take out the large plate of food that had been saved for him from dinner, carry it to a corner of the kitchen table, and eat it ravenously. Then he would drink deeply from the tin dipper and settle himself by the table where his grandfather read, to do his school work.

      At first he would sit with his head in his hands, stupefied by violent play, the long walk home, the heavy meal. He would pull off his sodden boots and rub his stocking feet together to warm them. Between his fingers he would study his grandfather’s face, the smooth dome of his head, the strong flaring beard, the tranquil eyes fixed on his newspaper or on the glowing stove. From the contemplation of that face the desire to work was quickened, but whether from the transmission of purely physical energy or from an antagonistic stimulus against all his grandfather stood for cannot be said. Whatever the reason, Shaw would take out his books and not raise his eyes from them till he was sent to bed.

      The house was not so quiet since the departure of Letitia and Beatrice as had been expected. One of the married daughters had come home to visit, bringing with her an ailing girl of four years. The child coughed and coughed. It was sick after the paroxysms. Shaw was told that it had whooping cough.

      “Look out you don’t catch it,” said Esther, “or you’ll have to stay home from school.”

      Shaw was aghast. The thought was horrible to him.

      “Isn’t there anything I can do, so I’ll not catch it?” he asked.

      “Eat lots of red pepper on your porridge,” said Leslie. He and Beatrice had come to dinner.

      There was a guffaw from Mark and Luke. Beaty rocked with laughter. Shaw looked sullenly at his plate. He had no fun in him, they said.

      He was, in truth, filled with apprehension. What if he took whooping cough and had to stay away from school? It would mean that he could not pass the entrance exam next summer. It would mean an extra year of the life he was now leading. He had a feeling of hate toward the whooping little cousin. She unfortunately took a fancy to him. She would follow him about, coughing and then making a noise like a cock crowing. He scowled at her and once got his ears boxed by her mother for giving her a pinch.

      His desire for learning amounted to greed. He learned whole chapters of the history and geography textbooks by heart. He did the homework of two classes. He came downstairs at five in the morning and worked by lamplight in the kitchen while the milking was done. But he began to ail.

      First he grew feverish and had a feeling of nausea. Still he did not suspect the cause. With his cheeks flushed and eyes glistening he pressed on in his pursuit of the textbooks, of everything that Miss McKay could teach him. Then one day she looked at him strangely and said:—

      “Shaw, I think you are making yourself sick. You are working beyond your strength.”

      “No, I’m not,” he denied. “I’m all right.”

      “I wish I could talk to your mother.”

      “But she wants me to work hard! She wants me to work as hard as ever I can!”

      “Very well. But I think you’re overdoing it.”

      That night he began to cough and the next day he was not allowed to go to school.

      “How long will I be at home?” he asked miserably.

      “Six weeks.” Jane Gower looked at him with some compassion. “Perhaps if you study at home you can keep up to the others.”

      “Grandma, I wonder if I could find out what the homework is, every night.”

      “You couldn’t every night, but perhaps we can get Miss McKay to let us know on Sundays.”

      “She’d help me if she could, Grandma, I’m sure she would. Ask her, please, Grandma! I do want to pass the exam!”

      “Well, I never did see such a boy! Fussing about exams when you’ve the whooping cough!”

      But Jane had a certain pride in his bookishness. She saw Miss McKay and the result was that every Sunday the teacher brought an outline of the week’s homework to church and handed it to one of the Gowers. Shaw was feverish from excitement as he waited for the return from church. He would stand by the window watching for the buggy long before the time when it should come. He felt that he could not bear it if the paper were forgotten. But it never was. Week by week he did the work of the two classes.

      Roger Gower had seemed oblivious of the coughing of his grandchildren, but one evening, returning from a visit to the village, his beard powdered by the first heavy snowfall, he brought two bottles of cough mixture and set down one in front of each child.

      “There,” he said. “I’ve brought you a bottle of cough medicine apiece, so don’t quarrel over it.”

      Jane was annoyed by the needless extravagance of the second bottle. She laid the supper table with her lip pushed forward and the back of her neck stiff. Roger buried himself in Dr. Chase’s next year’s almanac, which he had got at the drugstore, conning the dates of the births of famous people, the great fires, the battles and expositions. Shaw could scarcely endure the waiting till he might have possession of the almanac. “I know more about those things than Grandpa does,” he muttered to himself. “I bet he doesn’t know what he’s reading about!” Roger Gower looked up,