Autobiographical fiction; England -- Fiction; Marriage -- Fiction; Teachers -- Fiction
The school was not a public one, and the expulsion, or rather request
for removal, had taken place when Stephen was fourteen. A violent spasm
of dishonesty—such as often heralds the approach of manhood—had
overcome him. He stole everything, especially what was difficult to
steal, and hid the plunder beneath a loose plank in the passage. He was
betrayed by the inclusion of a ham. This was the crisis of his career.
His benefactress was just then rather bored with him. He had stopped
being a pretty boy, and she rather doubted whether she would see him
through. But she was so raged with the letters of the schoolmaster, and
so delighted with those of the criminal, that she had him back and gave
him a prize.
“No,” said Agnes, “I didn’t know. I should be happy to speak to
Herbert, but, as I said, his time will be very full. But I know he has
friends who make a speciality of weakly or—or unusual boys.”
“My dear, I’ve tried it. Stephen kicked the weakly boys and robbed
apples with the unusual ones. He was expelled again.”
Agnes began to find Mrs. Failing rather tiresome. Wherever you trod on
her, she seemed to slip away from beneath your feet. Agnes liked to
know where she was and where other people were as well. She said: “My
brother thinks a great deal of home life. I daresay he’d think that Mr.
Wonham is best where he is—with you. You have been so kind to him.
You”—she paused—“have been to him both father and mother.”
“I’m too hot,” was Mrs. Failing’s reply. It seemed that Miss Pembroke
had at last touched a topic on which she was reticent. She rang the
electric bell,—it was only to tell the footman to take the reprints to
Mr. Wonham’s room,—and then murmuring something about work, proceeded
herself to the house.
“Mrs. Failing—” said Agnes, who had not expected such a speedy end to
their chat.
“Call me Aunt Emily. My dear?”
“Aunt Emily, what did you think of that story Rickie sent you?”
“It is bad,” said Mrs. Failing. “But. But. But.” Then she escaped,
having told the truth, and yet leaving a pleasurable impression behind
her.
XII
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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