Tono-Bungay. H. G. Wells

float a little notion of mine, sort of an insurance scheme for colds; you pay so much a week, and when you’ve got a cold you get a bottle of Cough Linctus so long as you can produce a substantial sniff. See? But Lord! they’ve no capacity for ideas, they don’t catch on; no Jump about the place, no Life. Live!—they trickle, and what one has to do here is to trickle too—Zzzz.”

      “Ah!” said my mother.

      “It doesn’t suit me,” said my uncle. “I’m the cascading sort.”

      “George was that,” said my mother after a pondering moment.

      My aunt Susan took up the parable with an affectionate glance at her husband.

      “He’s always trying to make his old business jump,” she said. “Always putting fresh cards in the window, or getting up to something. You’d hardly believe. It makes ME jump sometimes.”

      “But it does no good,” said my uncle.

      “It does no good,” said his wife. “It’s not his miloo …”

      Presently they came upon a wide pause.

      From the beginning of their conversation there had been the promise of this pause, and I pricked my ears. I knew perfectly what was bound to come; they were going to talk of my father. I was enormously strengthened in my persuasion when I found my mother’s eyes resting thoughtfully upon me in the silence, and than my uncle looked at me and then my aunt. I struggled unavailingly to produce an expression of meek stupidity.

      “I think,” said my uncle, “that George will find it more amusing to have a turn in the market-place than to sit here talking with us. There’s a pair of stocks there, George—very interesting. Old-fashioned stocks.”

      “I don’t mind sitting here,” I said.

      My uncle rose and in the most friendly way led me through the shop. He stood on his doorstep and jerked amiable directions to me.

      “Ain’t it sleepy, George, eh? There’s the butcher’s dog over there, asleep in the road-half an hour from midday! If the last Trump sounded I don’t believe it would wake. Nobody would wake! The chaps up there in the churchyard—they’d just turn over and say: ‘Naar—you don’t catch us, you don’t! See?’. … Well, you’ll find the stocks just round that corner.”

      He watched me out of sight.

      So I never heard what they said about my father after all.

      VI

      When I returned, my uncle had in some remarkable way become larger and central. “Tha’chu, George?” he cried, when the shop-door bell sounded. “Come right through”; and I found him, as it were, in the chairman’s place before the draped grate.

      The three of them regarded me.

      “We have been talking of making you a chemist, George,” said my uncle.

      My mother looked at me. “I had hoped,” she said, “that Lady Drew would have done something for him—” She stopped.

      “In what way?” said my uncle.

      “She might have spoken to some one, got him into something perhaps. …” She had the servant’s invincible persuasion that all good things are done by patronage.

      “He is not the sort of boy for whom things are done,” she added, dismissing these dreams. “He doesn’t accommodate himself. When he thinks Lady Drew wishes a thing, he seems not to wish it. Towards Mr. Redgrave, too, he has been—disrespectful—he is like his father.”

      “Who’s Mr. Redgrave?”

      “The Vicar.”

      “A bit independent?” said my uncle, briskly.

      “Disobedient,” said my mother. “He has no idea of his place. He seems to think he can get on by slighting people and flouting them. He’ll learn perhaps before it is too late.”

      My uncle stroked his cut chin and me. “Have you learnt any Latin?” he asked abruptly.

      I said I had not.

      “He’ll have to learn a little Latin,” he explained to my mother, “to qualify. H’m. He could go down to the chap at the grammar school here—it’s just been routed into existence again by the Charity Commissioners and have lessons.”

      “What, me learn Latin!” I cried, with emotion.

      “A little,” he said.

      “I’ve always wanted” I said and; “LATIN!”

      I had long been obsessed by the idea that having no Latin was a disadvantage in the world, and Archie Garvell had driven the point of this pretty earnestly home. The literature I had read at Bladesover had all tended that way. Latin had had a quality of emancipation for me that I find it difficult to convey. And suddenly, when I had supposed all learning was at an end for me, I heard this!

      “It’s no good to you, of course,” said my uncle, “except to pass exams with, but there you are!”

      “You’ll have to learn Latin because you have to learn Latin,” said my mother, “not because you want to. And afterwards you will have to learn all sorts of other things. …”

      The idea that I was to go on learning, that to read and master the contents of books was still to be justifiable as a duty, overwhelmed all other facts. I had had it rather clear in my mind for some weeks that all that kind of opportunity might close to me for ever. I began to take a lively interest in this new project.

      “Then shall I live here?” I asked, “with you, and study … as well as work in the shop?”

      “That’s the way of it,” said my uncle.

      I parted from my mother that day in a dream, so sudden and important was this new aspect of things to me. I was to learn Latin! Now that the humiliation of my failure at Bladesover was past for her, now that she had a little got over her first intense repugnance at this resort to my uncle and contrived something that seemed like a possible provision for my future, the tenderness natural to a parting far more significant than any of our previous partings crept into her manner.

      She sat in the train to return, I remember, and I stood at the open door of her compartment, and neither of us knew how soon we should cease for ever to be a trouble to one another.

      “You must be a good boy, George,” she said. “You must learn. … And you mustn’t set yourself up against those who are above you and better than you. … Or envy them.”

      “No, mother,” I said.

      I promised carelessly. Her eyes were fixed upon me. I was wondering whether I could by any means begin Latin that night.

      Something touched her heart then, some thought, some memory; perhaps some premonition. … The solitary porter began slamming carriage doors.

      “George” she said hastily, almost shamefully, “kiss me!”

      I stepped up into her compartment as she bent downward.

      She caught me in her arms quite eagerly, she pressed me to her—a strange thing for her to do. I perceived her eyes were extraordinarily bright, and then this brightness burst along the lower lids and rolled down her cheeks.

      For the first and last time in my life I saw my mother’s tears. Then she had gone, leaving me discomforted and perplexed, forgetting for a time even that I was to learn Latin, thinking of my mother as of something new and strange.

      The thing recurred though I sought to dismiss it, it stuck itself into my memory against the day of fuller understanding. Poor, proud, habitual, sternly narrow soul! poor difficult and misunderstanding son! it was the first time that ever it dawned upon me that my mother also might perhaps feel.

      VII

      My