These were very happy years; I did as little work as I could, but I
played games with every ounce in me, hence I became a good all-round
athlete.
In the holidays I studied with Mr. Neville to make up my lapses of the
term, and I found it quite enjoyable; he always had the power of making
me think more clearly than anyone else ever had.
My stepfather encouraged me in sport of all kinds, boxing, foiling,
swimming, rowing, and shooting. He had had a magnificent gymnasium built
in the garden and had also rigged up a shooting range for revolver
practice.
I believe if I had been the veriest fool and lubber, these two men would
have made me different.
My great chum, Carruthers, and I were inseparable, and sometimes
exchanged visits to each other's homes. I remember the first time he
came to our place; when we went to bed he slipped into my room, which
adjoined his, to have a chat. We could both of us do well in that line.
This night, however, he did most of the talking, chiefly eulogising my
stepfather and Mr. Neville; he spoke with a keen appreciation of their
qualities, especially of those I most admired in them; which showed, now
I think of it, a perspicacity I had not credited him with.
My mother had received him kindly, but with that unapproachableness
which often mystified me; and he was almost shy when speaking of her. I
chaffed him about his nervousness when she asked for an explanation of
the nickname he always used when speaking to me: "Splosh." Of course he
could not give any reason, as there was none to give; but he managed to
murmur that I was called Splosh, by every one, because I looked like it.
This lucid explanation was sufficient and convulsing for my stepfather
and Mr. Neville, but did not seem to charm that dear mother of mine.
Carruthers' last remarks that night were: "What a lovely mother you
have, Splosh."
"Yes, she is," I said.
"I think I should be scared of her."
"Why?"
"I dunno, but I should. Good night."
If he had waited, I might have confessed that sometimes I felt the same
myself.
Mr. Smith came for his yearly visit that month; he took quiet notice of
Carruthers.
Towards me his manner had changed slightly. He was, I thought at the
time, rather ceremonious; but he gave me some splendid lessons with the
foils, and I forgot about it. He stayed longer than usual, and his
conversations with my mother were more drawn out.
It was about this time that a vague feeling first entered my head about
my mother; I fancied there was some mystery attached to her, and I in no
way desired that such a thing should be. The strange reticence every
one showed when I endeavoured to ask questions about my family, the
periodical visits of Mr. Smith, the care taken to exclude me from all
their conversations, all these things made me wonder, and then
Carruthers asked me one day to show him a picture of my father.
Picture of my father, picture of my father? I had never seen one; it
struck me that this was extraordinary, almost as extraordinary as the
fact that never before had I wished to see one. There had never been
one that I could remember, no painting, drawing, not even a photograph,
but I did not like to tell Carruthers that, so I made some excuse, and
slipped away.
The desire to know what my father looked like became very strong,
mingled with a feeling almost of shame; he may have loved me, petted me,
planned out my future, and yet I had never given him more than a passing
thought. In fact, I had grown to look upon my stepfather as my real
parent and certainly cared for him that way.
When I slipped away from my chum, I got into a boat and pulled up the
river to my favourite lounging place, and then I spent an hour or two,
lying on my back, staring at the sky and vainly striving to explain what
now I was convinced was a mystery. I recalled the early visits of Mr.
Smith, when my mother used to cry; could it be that my father had
committed some crime? Surely not, but why was he never mentioned, why
were there no pictures of him in the house?
I was in a mood full of curiosity, but this soon changed to one of
anger, I don't quite know why, unless I thought that I was old enough to
be told anything there was to know.
In this angry state I rowed back and stumped straight up to the house,
no doubt with great dignity.
My mother was sitting talking to Mr. Smith and my stepfather.
"Why, Victor, how flushed you look; is there anything the matter?" asked
my mother.
"Can I speak to you a minute, mother?"
"Of course, what is it?"
I blushed furiously, and blamed my own precipitation. Why had I not
waited a better opportunity? I could not ask the question I wanted to
ask with the others there; but I had to say something, and so blurted
out:
"Oh, it does not matter now, mother."
I believe that Mr. Smith made a sign to my stepfather, because they both
rose, and, after mentioning billiards, disappeared.