After several months, during which Horace had given up all his limited
spare time to the superintendence of the child's first steps in
knowledge, Sidney was judged to be sufficiently strong to go to school,
and it was arranged that he should attend the Endowed School at the
Wedgwood Institution. Horace accompanied him thither on the opening day
of the term--it was an inclement morning in January--and left the young
delicate sprig, apparently joyous and content, to the care of his
masters and the mercy of his companions. But Sidney came home for
dinner weeping--weeping in spite of his new mortar-board cap, his new
satchel, his new box of compasses, and his new books. His mother kept
him at home in the afternoon, and by the evening another of those
terrible attacks had supervened. The doctor and Horace and Mrs Carpole
once more lost much precious sleep. The mysterious malady continued.
School was out of the question.
And when Sidney took the air, in charge of his mother, everybody
stopped to sympathize with him and to stroke his curls and call him a
poor dear, and also to commiserate Mrs Carpole. As for Horace, Bursley
tried to feel sorry for Horace, but it only succeeded in showing Horace
that it was hiding a sentiment of indignation against him. Each
friendly face as it passed Horace in the street said, without words,
'There goes the youth who probably ruined his young stepbrother's life.
And through sheer obstinacy too! He dropped the little darling in spite
of warnings and protests, and then fell on the top of him. Of course,
he didn't do it on purpose, but--'
The doctor mentioned Greatorex of Manchester, the celebrated brain
specialist. And Horace took Sidney to Manchester. They had to wait an
hour and a quarter to see Greatorex, his well-known consulting-rooms in
John Dalton Street being crowded with imperfect brains; but their turn
came at last, and they found themselves in Greatorex's presence.
Greatorex was a fat man, with the voice of a thin man, who seemed to
spend the whole of his career in the care of his fingernails.
'Well, my little fellow,' said Greatorex, 'don't cry.' (For Sidney was
already crying.) And then to Horace, in a curt tone: 'What is it?'
And Horace was obliged to humiliate himself and relate the accident in
detail, together with all that had subsequently happened.
'Yes, yes, yes, yes!' Greatorex would punctuate the recital, and when
tired of 'yes' he would say 'Hum, hum, hum, hum!'
When he had said 'hum' seventy-two times he suddenly remarked that his
fee was three guineas, and told Horace to strengthen Sidney all he
could, not to work him too hard, and to bring him back in a year's time.
Horace paid the money, Greatorex emitted a final 'hum', and then the
stepbrothers were whisked out by an expeditious footman. The experience
cost Horace over four pounds and the loss of a day's time. And the
worst was that Sidney had a violent attack that very night.
School being impossible for him, Sidney had intermittent instruction
from professors of both sexes at home. But he learnt practically
nothing except the banjo. Horace had to buy him a banjo: it cost the
best part of a ten-pound note; still, Horace could do no less. Sidney's
stature grew rapidly; his general health certainly improved, yet not
completely; he always had a fragile, interesting air. Moreover, his
deafness did not disappear: there were occasions when it was extremely
pronounced. And he was never quite safe from these attacks in the head.
He spent a month or six weeks each year in the expensive bracing
atmosphere of some seaside resort, and altogether he was decidedly a
heavy drain on Horace's resources. People were aware of this, and they
said that Horace ought to be happy that he was in a position to spend
money freely on his poor brother. Had not the doctor predicted, before
the catastrophe due to Horace's culpable negligence, that Sidney would
grow into a strong man, and that his deafness would leave him? The
truth was, one never knew the end of those accidents in infancy!
Further, was not Sidney's sad condition slowly killing his mother? It
was whispered about that, since the disaster, Sidney had not been QUITE
sound mentally. Was not the mere suspicion of this enough to kill any
mother?
And, as a fact, Mrs Carpole did die. She died of quinsy, doubtless
aggravated by Sidney's sad condition.
Not long afterwards Horace came into a small fortune from his maternal
grandfather. But poor Sidney did not come into any fortune, and people
somehow illogically inferred that Horace had not behaved quite nicely
in coming into a fortune while his suffering invalid brother, whom he
had so deeply harmed, came into nothing. Even Horace had compunctions
due to the visitations of a similar idea. And with part of the fortune
he bought a house with a large garden up at Toft End, the highest hill
of the hilly Five Towns, so that Sidney might have the benefit of the
air. He also engaged a housekeeper and servants. With the remainder of
the fortune he obtained a partnership in the firm of earthenware
manufacturers for whom he had been acting as highly-paid manager.
Sidney reached the age of eighteen, and was most effective to look
upon, his bright hair being still curly, and his eyes a wondrous blue,
and his form elegant; and the question of Sidney's future arose. His
health was steadily on the up grade. The deafness had quite
disappeared. He had inclinations towards art, and had already amused
himself by painting some beautiful vases. So it was settled that he
should enter Horace's works on the art side, with a view to becoming,
ultimately, art director. Horace gave him three pounds a week, in order
that he might feel perfectly independent, and, to the same end, Sidney
paid Horace seven-and-sixpence a week for board and lodging. But the
change of life upset the youth's health again. After only two visits to
the works he had a grave recurrence of the head-attacks, and he was
solemnly exhorted not to apply himself too closely to business. He
therefore took several half-holidays a week, and sometimes a whole one.
And even when he put in one of his full days he would arrive at the
works three hours after Horace, and restore the balance by leaving an
hour earlier. The entire town watched over him as a mother watches over
a son. The notion that he was not QUITE right in the pate gradually
died away, and everybody was thankful for that, though it was feared an
untimely grave might be his portion.