I wanted a naughty boy. Well, Dick was naughty, no one
can say that he was not. But it was not my naughtiness. I was
prepared for his robbing orchards. I rather hoped he would rob
orchards. All the high-spirited boys in books rob orchards, and
become great men. But there were not any orchards handy. We
happened to be living in Chelsea at the time he ought to have been
robbing orchards: that, of course, was my fault. I did not think of
that. He stole a bicycle that a lady had left outside the tea-room
in Battersea Park, he and another boy, the son of a common barber,
who shaved people for three-halfpence. I am a Republican in theory,
but it grieved me that a son of mine could be drawn to such
companionship. They contrived to keep it for a week--till the police
found it one night, artfully hidden behind bushes. Logically, I do
not see why stealing apples should be noble and stealing bicycles
should be mean, but it struck me that way at the time. It was not
the particular steal I had been hoping for.
"I wanted him wild; the hero of the book was ever in his college days
a wild young man. Well, he was wild. It cost me three hundred
pounds to keep that breach of promise case out of Court; I had never
imagined a breach of promise case. Then he got drunk, and bonneted a
bishop in mistake for a 'bull-dog.' I didn't mind the bishop. That
by itself would have been wholesome fun. But to think that a son of
mine should have been drunk!"
"He has never been drunk since," pleaded Robina.
Pages:
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146