Chapter VIII: "tied to His Mother's Apron-Strings."

Now a boy is, of all wild beasts, the most difficult to manage.--PLATO.

"You see, dear Mrs. Tremain, one must be so careful with boys; there are so many temptations into which they are likely to fall, and, humanly speaking, there is no such careful and saving influence as a mother's."

The speaker, Mrs. Causton, was a middle-aged lady, with no-coloured hair brought low on each side of her brow, and a rather care-worn face, which expressed kindly intentions, but yet at the same time seemed a little formal. An old friend of Dr. Tremain's, and the wife of a naval officer, she had lately settled down at Porthkerran in order to be with her son Stephen, a boy of nineteen, who was to spend a year in Dr. Tremain's surgery before going up to London to "walk the hospitals." Mrs. Causton was such a near neighbour that she was an almost daily visitor at the doctor's house, and her easy informal comings and goings never interfered with anything that was going on. The two ladies were sitting by the open window of the breakfast-room one warm summer morning, when Mrs. Causton made the remark about a "mother's influence;" Mrs. Tremain, with the daintiest and most exquisitely neat workbox before her, was busy with some folds of blue cambric, out of which her skilful, and therefore graceful-looking hands, were devising one of little Nesta's frocks; and Gladys, at the far end of the room, was giving Jackie a reading-lesson.

"And yet," began Mrs. Tremain, in answer, "I can't help thinking that a certain amount of independence is almost necessary; a boy must learn sooner or later to stand alone."

"Yes, yes, sooner or later, of course. Stephen must be alone in London next year. I wish it could be otherwise; but you know I never could be in London, unfortunately; the air is like poison to me. He must be alone then, but I can't help dreading it very much; he has scarcely ever been away from me, not for more than a few days at a time in his whole life. I could never make up my mind to send him to school; there are so many temptations in school life; I always dreaded it for Stephen."

"One wants a great deal of faith with children," said Mrs. Tremain; and as she spoke, though the words were by no means lightly meant, there was a little smile of amusement about her lips, for she knew she was poaching on Mrs. Causton's manor.

"Ah! dear Mrs. Tremain, no one knows that better than I do; it is faith from the beginning to the end, how else could one bear the anxieties, the---- Well, Jackie dear," as the sturdy little four-year-old boy, released from his lessons, sprang towards her with the affectionate rough demonstration of arms and legs common to most children of his age. "It was only last Sunday that I was trying to tell dear little Jackie something of the nature of faith; one cannot too early impress it on a child. Do you remember, darling, what I said in Sunday-school?"

"This is Fliday," said the matter-of-fact Jackie.

"Yes, but can't you remember such a few days ago as that? What did I say faith was?"

"Oh! I lemember," said Jackie, looking up brightly. "An apple-pie in a boat."

Mrs. Tremain and Gladys could not help laughing, Mrs. Causton looked perplexed for a minute, but Jackie ran off contentedly to his play, and never waited for the explanation.

"Poor little man, I see how it was. I just gave them an illustration, you know, told them that if they went down to the beach with me one day, and I was to say, 'Look at that boat in the distance, it has an apple-pie in it,' and they were to believe there was an apple-pie in it, that would be faith. It is always well to choose attractive illustrations for children, but dear little Jackie of course was rather confused just now."

"Aunt Margaret," said Gladys, for, though Mrs. Causton was no real relation, the children had known her all their lives, and had christened her "auntie," in American fashion. "Aunt Margaret, what would you have done if Stephen had had to go to sea like Dick?"

"My dear, I could never have allowed it," said Mrs. Causton, quickly. "Of course, naturally enough, at one time Stephen did wish to go with his father, but it could never have been allowed. From the very first I determined that he should be a clergyman or a doctor, the only thoroughly good and Christian professions, to my mind."

"Oh! but, auntie, think of the number of good men there are in other professions," said Gladys, with girlish vehemence, provoked by the narrowness of the remark.

"I like a consistent calling," said Mrs. Causton, "and you know, Gladys, humanly speaking, it is often difficult to lead a consistent life in a more secular profession."

Gladys was silenced but not satisfied. When Mrs. Causton had gone she returned to the subject.

"Mother, Aunt Margaret seems to think that very few people are Christians. She talks as if all the world, except just a few people like herself, were wicked."

"Your aunt has very strong opinions. I do not agree with her always," said Mrs. Tremain. "Nor need you, Gladys."

"But, mother, it's so tiresome to have to hear people say things like that, it's so--so narrow! What would she do if there were only two professions in the world, if every man was a clergyman or a doctor? And if the other things must be done and seen to, why, it must be right for some one to do them."

"Do you know," said Mrs. Tremain, smiling, "that you are a very hot little arguer, Gladys? I fancy, like most women, that you have just a little personal feeling mixed with your views. Were you not thinking of Dick when the other professions were being decried?"

"You always know everything," said Gladys, resting her arm on Mrs. Tremain's knee, and shading her brow with her hand. "Yes, I was thinking of Dick. I believe he's the best middy in all the navy. You know, mother, what Captain Smith said about his influence on board. I'm sure his life is as consistent as Stephen's will ever be."

"We are getting rather little and personal," said Mrs. Tremain. "Don't let us take to crying up our own belongings, and comparing them with other people's. Of course you are proud of Dick, dear, and so am I, but he is not a paragon of virtue."

"Oh I no, I can't bear paragons," said Gladys, laughing, "they are always prigs. Dick is a regular boy still, that's why he's so nice. I wonder whether Aunt Margaret thinks it very risky for him to be left to himself so much. I believe Stephen wants to be let alone a little, he always looks so bored when auntie begins to talk at him. You know, mother, she really does talk rather much, she always tries to drag in religion, and sometimes it does come in so oddly. And then she is always saying 'humanly speaking.' I can't bear those little phrases. I think auntie must be descended from some of the old Puritans. I'm sure she'd have liked those funny, made-up names. She chose Stephen's name because it was in the Bible, and she thinks Gladys sounds so like a heathen. She wonders you and papa chose it for me."

Mrs. Tremain laughed.

"Well, Gladys dear, live up to the best meaning of your name, and I shall be quite satisfied. Now let us have our reading together. The weather looks promising for our picnic this afternoon, does it not?"

Later in the day the whole family, including Stephen and Mrs. Causton, were to meet for an out-of-doors tea-drinking. It was a half-holiday, and the two younger boys, intervening between Dick and little Jackie, were to come over from their school at Plymouth. The doctor had promised to get his rounds done quickly, and Stephen was released from his duties for an hour or two. To children, and to child-like minds, it is seldom that a great expedition or an expensive picnic gives the pleasure which a more simple and homely one does. It is not the great, formal, country excursion, with its grand toilettes and champagne lunch which dwells in the memory, and is looked back upon with pleasure, it is rather the simple "day in the country," when there were no liveried servants to carry the provisions, when our own arms ached with the burden, when, with a sense of delicious novelty, we ourselves spread the cloth on the turf, or boiled the kettle over a gipsy-like fire of sticks, or roamed in delightful freedom in what seemed a paradise of rest and greenness, away from the "haunts of men."

About two miles west of Porthkerran the cliffs were broken into a sort of cleft or narrow valley, and here a beautiful wood had sprung up, which in spring was carpeted with primroses and anemones, and where in summer forget-me-nots were to be found by the side of the little streams which trickled through the wood to the sea. It was in this place that the Tremains were to spend their afternoon.

"It was very good of you to spare Stephen," said Mrs. Causton to the doctor, as he helped her out of the little pony-carriage, in which the elder ladies and the two younger children had come. "I sometimes fancy that he does not get out enough. I hope he deserves his holiday?"

"Yes, a little country air will freshen him up," said the doctor, without replying directly to the question.

The mother's instinct was quick to note this.

"I hope you are really satisfied with Stephen?" she said, anxiously. "I hope he isn't idle?"

"Oh!" said the doctor, re-assuringly, "I don't think he's more idle than many boys of his age. I daresay he told you that I was down upon him rather sharply yesterday. He forgot an important message, and I was obliged to lecture him a little."

"He never told me," said Mrs. Causton, with some vexation in her tone. "I would always so much rather know things of that kind. I cannot get him to be open with me."

"You can hardly expect that he will tell you of every trifling scrape he gets into," said Dr. Tremain. "That was all very well while he was in petticoats, and the more spontaneous telling there is still the better, but perhaps one can hardly expect it in such a matter as that."

"I like _perfect_ confidence between a mother and son," said Mrs. Causton. "Who should help him and advise him, if I do not?"

"Quite so. It is everything to have strong sympathy and understanding, but confidence cannot be forced, or it is utterly worthless, and a boy of nineteen is generally rather a tough customer to deal with."

"You think so?" questioned Mrs. Causton.

"Yes, I think undoubtedly that from eighteen to one and twenty is one of the most difficult periods of life. Boys, and in many instances girls, too, begin then to have a good deal of liberty. The old discipline is cast off, they have to rule their own actions to a great extent, they have to face the problems of life, and forming their own opinion strongly on every point, whether it is beyond their comprehension or not, they battle along not unfrequently a misery to themselves and to their friends, till, after dearly-bought experience, they at last settle down, more or less contentedly, with some of their conceit knocked out of them."

"Stephen is not conceited," broke in Mrs. Causton. "I don't think anyone could call him conceited; and as to his opinions, why he holds everything that I do. He has never been any trouble to me in that way, and in these days, when young men so often hold such dreadfully unorthodox views, that is saying a great deal."

"I don't think Stephen is in any danger of being unorthodox," said the doctor, rather drily. Then after a little pause he added, "I meant that I don't think he ever thinks enough to have any difficulties. But in one way, Mrs. Causton, I do think he might be in danger, he is far too easily led."

"He is naturally gentle and pliable," said Mrs. Causton. She would not say, "weak."

"And there is, I think, his danger," said the doctor. "Old John Bunyan showed a wonderful knowledge of life when he made Pliable the one to go half-way into the Slough of Despond, and never win through it. I don't want to make you anxious about Stephen, but of course, since the lad's been with me, he's been in my mind a good deal, and I can't help thinking that he wants more of a backbone; he has not enough steadiness; he is too loose in his management of himself. I do not think he knows how to steer his own course."

"But I am still with him; he cannot go wrong now very well," said Mrs. Causton.

"But you cannot always be with him," replied the doctor. "Depend upon it, the best thing you can do is to teach him _self_-management. There is an old saying, which of course you know, about the child who is 'tied to his mother's apron-strings;' perhaps it seems cruel of me to quote such a rough simile to you, but, you see, there is danger in it--it makes a boy weak and helpless, instead of bracing him for his part in life, as I know you and all good mothers would wish to do."

"Well, what shall I tell him?--what is his chief fault in his work?" said Mrs. Causton, with the rather fretted manner of one taking uncongenial advice.

"Don't bother him--let him alone a little," said the doctor, cheerfully. "Some day I mean to give him a good blowing up; he must learn to keep the surgery more tidy."

Mrs. Causton was a little annoyed at this sudden descent to what seemed to her such a trifling and mundane matter, but Dr. Tremain's next sentence cleared her brow once more.

"You must not mind my talking so plainly to you about the boy; you see, I've been his father's friend ever since we were lads together, and so I can't help taking a special interest in Stephen. But don't let us spoil our afternoon's pleasuring with educational bothers. Where will you and the mother sit? Here is a nice tree ready felled--what do you say to that? I shall leave you to gossip while I go mothing."

So the doctor, taking his butterfly-net, walked off into the wood, tapping the tree-trunks every now and then in search of spoil, and closely followed by Jackie, who promised to be as keen a naturalist as his father.

Mrs. Tremain took out her knitting, and, while talking with her companion, kept an eye on little Nesta, who was now more than a year old, and just beginning to run alone. From their place the two ladies could catch glimpses of the deep blue of the Porthkerran Bay through the overhanging trees, while occasionally merry voices in the distance told of the presence of the children. The quiet country "stillness" was very refreshing, but Mrs. Causton could not quite free herself from the uncomfortable impression which the doctor's words had left on her mind; had she been able to see into her son's heart at that moment, her anxiety would have been still greater.

"How jolly this is!" said Stephen, as, leaving the dusty highway, they entered the cool green shade of the wood. "I used to think it must be so dull down here at Porthkerran; it seemed like the ends of the earth when we were living in Sussex."

"Cornwall is the best place in the world," said Gladys, with pride. "I can't think how people can live in places where they have to wear gloves always, and walk about in their best clothes."

"I thought girls always liked dress," said Stephen.

"Oh! yes, of course, in a way; it is nice to have pretty things, but not to be always bothered with them," said Gladys, stooping down to gather some forget-me-nots.

The younger boys had wandered on in front. Stephen was not sorry to be left behind, for he was rapidly gliding into love with Gladys. He gave to her now the confidence which his mother had so much wished for.

"Sometimes I think, Gladys, that I shall be obliged to go away from here," he began--"before my year is over, I mean."

"Oh, will you?" said Gladys.

"Would you--would you be sorry if I went?" questioned Stephen, anxiously.

"Of course," said Gladys, with almost more frankness than he desired--"dreadfully sorry. We should all miss you; and besides, Aunt Margaret has taken the house now."

It was too general and prosaic a view to please Stephen; however, he continued--

"I fancy your father is not pleased with me; he was awfully vexed yesterday."

"Was he? Why was that?" asked Gladys, looking up with innocent sympathy.

"Why, they sent up word from the inn that Mary Pengelly was much worse, and I forgot to tell him."

"Oh, Stephen! and did it matter much?"

"I don't know. I don't think it could have made much difference. She died this morning."

There was a little silence after this, then Gladys said,

"I've often noticed that papa is more vexed by carelessness than by great big faults, and you see, Stephen, this might have been so dreadful, if he could have saved her by going earlier."

"Oh! I don't think he could. She's been supposed to be dying for a week. Don't look so awfully grave, Gladys, I shall be very careful, of course, after this. I mean to turn over a new leaf. You don't know how I should hate to leave this place. You don't know how I care for--for you all."

The colour had risen to the roots of his hair, and Gladys for the first time caught his meaning. Half pleased, half frightened, her strongest impulse was to run away, to put a stop somehow to the _tête-à-tête_; for the first time she felt that there was a difference between walking alone with Dick and walking alone with Stephen, and, with a sudden shyness which she had never known before, she looked about for some way of escape.

A brilliant butterfly fluttered past her, and, with relief in her voice, she said, quickly,

"Oh! I do believe there is that rare 'blue' which Jackie wanted. I must catch him."

And, while Stephen wished all the rare "blues" at the other side of the world, Gladys sprang across the little brook, running in swift pursuit of her victim. Stephen sauntered on rather discontentedly, but taking care not to lose sight of the brown holland and blue ribbons, which flashed rapidly hither and thither in the chase, threading the woody labyrinth. When at last he came up with her, the butterfly was secured, and the rest of the party were in sight.

Then came the merry preparations for tea; the boys gathered sticks and nursed the flickering blaze, Gladys began to spread bread and honey, like the queen in the nursery rhyme, and Dr. Tremain, returning with his prey in a dozen little boxes, devoted himself to making jokes for Mrs. Causton's benefit, and good-naturedly entered into all the children's arrangements, though, like most middle-aged men, he hated the discomforts of an out-door meal. The most noteworthy incident in the day to Stephen was that afterwards, as they were still resting in the shade, from time to time singing rounds and catches, Gladys began to make her forget-me-nots into tiny nosegays. There was one for everybody, but the greater number of them were destined to "bloom their hour and fade," only one was carefully preserved among Stephen's untidy haunts. There was this much of good in him, that he was capable of recognizing Gladys' beauty and goodness, but unfortunately she did not greatly influence him.