CHAPTER VI
HIS FATHER'S DESERTION
I
The strongest of all habits is that of acquiescence. It is this habit ofsubmission that explains the admired patience and long-suffering of theabjectly poor. The lower the individual falls, the more unconquerablebecomes the inertia of mind which interferes between him and revoltagainst his condition. All the miseries of the flesh, even starvation,seem preferable to the making of an effort great enough to break thishabit of submission.
Ginger Stott was not poor. For a man in his station of life he wasunusually well provided for, but in him the habit of acquiescence wasstrongly rooted. Before his son was a year old, Stott had grown toloathe his home, to dread his return to it, yet it did not occur to himuntil another year had passed that he could, if he would, set up anotherestablishment on his own account; that he could, for instance, take aroom in Ailesworth, and leave his wife and child in the cottage. For twoyears he did not begin to think of this idea, and then it was suddenlyforced upon him.
Ever since they had overheard those strangely intelligentself-communings, the Stotts had been perfectly aware that theirwonderful child could talk if he would. Ellen Mary, pondering thatsingle expression, had read a world of meaning into her son's murmurs of"learning." In her simple mind she understood that his deliberatewithholding of speech was a reserve against some strange manifestation.
The manifestation, when it came, was as remarkable as it was unexpected.
The armchair in which Henry Challis had once sat was a valuedpossession, dedicated by custom to the sole use of George Stott. Eversince he had been married, Stott had enjoyed the full and undisputed useof that chair. Except at his meals, he never sat in any other, and hehad formed a fixed habit of throwing himself into that chair immediatelyon his return from his work at the County Ground.
One evening in November, however, when his son was just over two yearsold, Stott found his sacred chair occupied. He hesitated a moment, andthen went in to the kitchen to find his wife.
"That child's in my chair," he said.
Ellen was setting the tray for her husband's tea. "Yes ... I know," shereplied. "I--I did mention it, but 'e 'asn't moved."
"Well, take 'im out," ordered Stott, but he dropped his voice.
"Does it matter?" asked his wife. "Tea's just ready. Time that's done'e'll be ready for 'is bath."
"Why can't you move 'im?" persisted Stott gloomily. "'E knows it's mychair."
"There! kettle's boilin', come in and 'ave your tea," equivocated thediplomatic Ellen.
During the progress of the meal, the child still sat quietly in hisfather's chair, his little hands resting on his knees, his eyes wideopen, their gaze abstracted, as usual, from all earthly concerns.
But after tea Stott was heroic. He had reached the limit of hisendurance. One of his deep-seated habits was being broken, and with itsnapped his habit of acquiescence. He rose to his feet and faced his sonwith determination, and Stott had a bull-dog quality about him that wasnot easily defeated.
"Look 'ere! Get out!" he said. "That's _my_ chair!"
The child very deliberately withdrew his attention from infinity andregarded the dogged face and set jaw of his father. Stott returned thestare for the fraction of a second, and then his eyes wavered anddropped, but he maintained his resolution.
"You got to get out," he said, "or I'll make you."
Ellen Mary gripped the edge of the table, but she made no attempt tointerfere.
There was a tense, strained silence. Then Stott began to breatheheavily. He lifted his long arms for a moment and raised his eyes, heeven made a tentative step towards the usurped throne.
The child sat calm, motionless; his eyes were fixed upon his father'sface with a sublime, undeviating confidence.
Stott's arms fell to his sides again, he shuffled his feet. One moreeffort he made, a sudden, vicious jerk, as though he would do the thingquickly and be finished with it; then he shivered, his resolution broke,and he shambled evasively to the door.
"God damn," he muttered. At the door he turned for an instant, sworeagain in the same words, and went out into the night.
To Stott, moodily pacing the Common, this thing was incomprehensible,some horrible infraction of the law of normal life, something to becondemned; altered, if possible. It was unprecedented, and it was,therefore, wrong, unnatural, diabolic, a violation of the soundprinciples which uphold human society.
To Ellen Mary it was merely a miracle, the foreshadowing of greatermiracles to come. And to her was manifested, also, a minor miracle, forwhen his father had gone, the child looked at his mother and gave outhis first recorded utterance.
"'Oo _is_ God?" he said.
Ellen Mary tried to explain, but before she had stammered out manywords, her son abstracted his gaze, climbed down out of the chair, andintimated with his usual grunt that he desired his bath and his bed.
II
The depths of Stott were stirred that night. He had often said that "hewouldn't stand it much longer," but the words were a mere formula: hehad never even weighed their intention. As he paced the Common, hemuttered them again to the night, with new meaning; he saw newpossibilities, and saw that they were practicable. "I've 'ad enough,"was his new phrase, and he added another that gave evidence of a newattitude. "Why not?" he said again and again. "And why not?"
Stott's mind was not analytical. He did not examine his problem, weighthis and that and draw a balanced deduction. He merely saw a picture ofpeace and quiet, in a room at Ailesworth, in convenient proximity to hiswork (he made an admirable groundsman and umpire, his work absorbed him)and, perhaps, he conceived some dim ideal of pleasant evenings spent inthe companionship of those who thought in the same terms as himself;who shared in his one interest; whose speech was of form, averages, thepreparation of wickets, and all the detail of cricket.
Stott's ambition to have a son and to teach him the mysteries of hisfather's success had been dwindling for some time past. On this night itwas finally put aside. Stott's "I've 'ad enough" may be taken to includethat frustrated ideal. No more experiments for him, was thepronouncement that summed up his decision.
Still there were difficulties. Economically he was free, he could allowhis wife thirty shillings a week, more than enough for her support andthat of her child; but--what would she say, how would she take hisdetermination? A determination it was, not a proposal. And theneighbours, what would they say? Stott anticipated a fuss. "She'll sayI've married 'er, and it's my duty to stay by 'er," was his anticipationof his wife's attitude. He did not profess to understand the ways of thesex, but some rumours of misunderstandings between husbands and wives ofhis own class had filtered through his absorption in cricket.
He stumbled home with a mind prepared for dissension.
He found his wife stitching by the fire. The door at the foot of thestairs was closed. The room presented an aspect of cleanly, cheerfulcomfort; but Stott entered with dread, not because he feared to meet hiswife, but because there was a terror sleeping in that house.
His armchair was empty now, but he hesitated before he sat down in it.He took off his cap and rubbed the seat and back of the chairvigorously: a child of evil had polluted it, the chair might still holdenchantment....
"I've 'ad enough," was his preface, and there was no need for anyfurther explanation.
Ellen Mary let her hands fall into her lap, and stared dreamily at thefire.
"I'm sorry it's come to this, George," she said, "but it 'asn't been myfault no more'n it's been your'n. Of course I've seen it a-comin', and Iknowed it _'ad_ to be, some time; but I don't think there need be any'ard words over it. I don't expec' you to understand 'im, no more'n I domyself--it isn't in nature as you should, but all said and done, there'sno bones broke, and if we 'ave to part, there's no reason as weshouldn't part peaceable."
That speech said nearly everything. Afterwards it was only a question ofmaking arrangements, and in that there was no difficulty.
Another man might ha
ve felt a little hurt, a little neglected by theabsence of any show of feeling on his wife's part, but Stott passed itby. He was singularly free from all sentimentality; certain primitive,human emotions seem to have played no part in his character. At thismoment he certainly had no thought that he was being carelessly treated;he wanted to be free from the oppression of that horror upstairs--so hefigured it--and the way was made easy for him.
He nodded approval, and made no sign of any feeling.
"I shall go to-morrer," he said, and then, "I'll sleep down 'ereto-night." He indicated the sofa upon which he had slept for so manynights at Stoke, after his tragedy had been born to him.
Ellen Mary had said nearly everything, but when she had made up a bedfor her husband in the sitting-room, she paused, candle in hand, beforeshe bade him good-night.
"Don't wish 'im 'arm, George," she said. "'E's different from us, and wedon't understand 'im proper, but some day----"
"I don't wish 'im no 'arm," replied Stott, and shuddered. "I don't wish'im no 'arm," he repeated, as he kicked off the boot he had beenunlacing.
"You mayn't never see 'im again," added Ellen Mary.
Stott stood upright. In his socks, he looked noticeably shorter than hiswife. "I suppose not," he said, and gave a deep sigh of relief. "Well,thank Gawd for that, anyway."
Ellen Mary drew her lips together. For some dim, unrealised reason, shewished her husband to leave the cottage with a feeling of goodwilltowards the child, but she saw that her wish was little likely to befulfilled.
"Well, good-night, George," she said, after a few seconds of silence,and she added pathetically, as she turned at the foot of the stairs:"Don't wish 'im no harm."
"I won't," was all the assurance she received.
When she had gone, and the door was closed behind her, Stott paddedsilently to the window and looked out. A young moon was dipping into abank of cloud, and against the feeble brightness he could see anuncertain outline of bare trees. He pulled the curtain across thewindow, and turned back to the warm cheerfulness of the room.
"Shan't never see 'im again," he murmured, "thank Gawd!" He undressedquietly, blew out the lamp and got between the sheets of his improvisedbed. For some minutes he stared at the leaping shadows on the ceiling.He was wondering why he had ever been afraid of the child. "After all,'e's only a blarsted freak," was the last thought in his mind before hefell asleep.
And with that pronouncement Stott passes out of the history of theHampdenshire Wonder. He was in many ways an exceptional man, and hisname will always be associated with the splendid successes ofHampdenshire cricket, both before and after the accident that destroyedhis career as a bowler. He was not spoiled by his triumphs: those twoyears of celebrity never made Stott conceited, and there are undoubtedlymany traits in his character which call for our admiration. He is stillin his prime, an active agent in finding talent for his county, and indeveloping that talent when found. Hampdenshire has never come into thefield with weak bowling, and all the credit belongs to Ginger Stott.
One sees that he was not able to appreciate the wonderful gifts of hisown son, but Stott was an ignorant man, and men of intellectualattainment failed even as Stott failed in this respect. Ginger Stott wasa success in his own walk of life, and that fact should command ouradmiration. It is not for us to judge whether his attainments were moreor less noble than the attainments of his son.
III
One morning, two days after Stott had left the cottage, Ellen Mary wasstartled by the sudden entrance of her child into the sitting-room. Hetoddled in hastily from the garden, and pointed with excitement throughthe window.
Ellen Mary was frightened; she had never seen her child other thandeliberate, calm, judicial, in all his movements. In a sudden spasm ofmotherly love she bent to pick him up, to caress him.
"No," said the Wonder, with something that approached disgust in histone and attitude. "No," he repeated. "What's 'e want 'angin' round'ere? Send 'im off." He pointed again to the window.
Ellen Mary looked out and saw a grinning, slobbering obscenity at thegate. Stott had scared the idiot away, but in some curious, inexplicablemanner he had learned that his persecutor and enemy had gone, and he hadreturned, and had made overtures to the child that walked so sedately upand down the path of the little garden.
Ellen Mary went out. "You be off," she said.
"A-ba, a-ba-ba," bleated the idiot, and pointed at the house.
"Be off, I tell you!" said Ellen Mary fiercely. But still the idiotbabbled and pointed.
Ellen Mary stooped to pick up a stick. The idiot blenched; he understoodthat movement well enough, though it was a stone he anticipated, not astick; with a foolish cry he dropped his arms and slouched away down thelane.