“Well, they can’t go on scratching for
ever,” he replied. “And when they’ve
done, I trot away.”
“But one day you’ll find a string round
your neck that you can’t pull off,” she
answered.
“Not me! I’m equal to any of ’em,
mater, they needn’t flatter themselves.”
“You flatter yourself,” she said
quietly.
Soon there was a heap of twisted black pages, all
that remained of the file of scented letters, except
that Paul had thirty or forty pretty tickets from
the corners of the notepaper—swallows and
forget-me-nots and ivy sprays. And William went
to London, to start a new life.
THE YOUNG LIFE OF PAUL
Paul would be built like his mother, slightly
and rather small. His fair hair went reddish,
and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. He was
a pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen,
and with a full, dropping underlip.
As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was
so conscious of what other people felt, particularly
his mother. When she fretted he understood, and
could have no peace. His soul seemed always attentive
to her.
As he grew older he became stronger. William
was too far removed from him to accept him as a companion.
So the smaller boy belonged at first almost entirely
to Annie. She was a tomboy and a “flybie-skybie”,
as her mother called her. But she was intensely
fond of her second brother. So Paul was towed
round at the heels of Annie, sharing her game.
She raced wildly at lerky with the other young wild-cats
of the Bottoms. And always Paul flew beside her,
living her share of the game, having as yet no part
of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable.
But his sister adored him. He always seemed to
care for things if she wanted him to.
She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud,
though not so fond. So she laid the doll on the
sofa, and covered it with an antimacassar, to sleep.
Then she forgot it. Meantime Paul must practise
jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash
into the face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed
up, uttered a loud wail, and sat down to weep a dirge.
Paul remained quite still.
“You couldn’t tell it was there, mother;
you couldn’t tell it was there,” he repeated
over and over. So long as Annie wept for the doll
he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself
out. She forgave her brother—he was
so much upset. But a day or two afterwards she
was shocked.
“Let’s make a sacrifice of Arabella,”
he said. “Let’s burn her.”
She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She
wanted to see what the boy would do. He made
an altar of bricks, pulled some of the shavings out
of Arabella’s body, put the waxen fragments
into the hollow face, poured on a little paraffin,
and set the whole thing alight. He watched with
wicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt off the broken
forehead of Arabella, and drop like sweat into the
flame. So long as the stupid big doll burned
he rejoiced in silence. At the end be poked among
the embers with a stick, fished out the arms and legs,
all blackened, and smashed them under stones.
