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The Pupil
by
“Darling child, one does what one can; there are so many things to consider,” urged Mrs. Moreen. “It’s his place–his only place. You see you think it is now.”
“Take me away–take me away,” Morgan went on, smiling to Pemberton with his white face.
“Where shall I take you, and how–oh how, my boy?” the young man stammered, thinking of the rude way in which his friends in London held that, for his convenience, with no assurance of prompt return, he had thrown them over; of the just resentment with which they would already have called in a successor, and of the scant help to finding fresh employment that resided for him in the grossness of his having failed to pass his pupil.
“Oh we’ll settle that. You used to talk about it,” said Morgan. “If we can only go all the rest’s a detail.”
“Talk about it as much as you like, but don’t think you can attempt it. Mr. Moreen would never consent–it would be so very hand-to-mouth,” Pemberton’s hostess beautifully explained to him. Then to Morgan she made it clearer: “It would destroy our peace, it would break our hearts. Now that he’s back it will be all the same again. You’ll have your life, your work and your freedom, and we’ll all be happy as we used to be. You’ll bloom and grow perfectly well, and we won’t have any more silly experiments, will we? They’re too absurd. It’s Mr. Pemberton’s place–every one in his place. You in yours, your papa in his, me in mine–n’est-ce pas, cheri? We’ll all forget how foolish we’ve been and have lovely times.”
She continued to talk and to surge vaguely about the little draped stuffy salon while Pemberton sat with the boy, whose colour gradually came back; and she mixed up her reasons, hinting that there were going to be changes, that the other children might scatter (who knew?–Paula had her ideas) and that then it might be fancied how much the poor old parent- birds would want the little nestling. Morgan looked at Pemberton, who wouldn’t let him move; and Pemberton knew exactly how he felt at hearing himself called a little nestling. He admitted that he had had one or two bad days, but he protested afresh against the wrong of his mother’s having made them the ground of an appeal to poor Pemberton. Poor Pemberton could laugh now, apart from the comicality of Mrs. Moreen’s mustering so much philosophy for her defence–she seemed to shake it out of her agitated petticoats, which knocked over the light gilt chairs–so little did their young companion, marked, unmistakeably marked at the best, strike him as qualified to repudiate any advantage.
He himself was in for it at any rate. He should have Morgan on his hands again indefinitely; though indeed he saw the lad had a private theory to produce which would be intended to smooth this down. He was obliged to him for it in advance; but the suggested amendment didn’t keep his heart rather from sinking, any more than it prevented him from accepting the prospect on the spot, with some confidence moreover that he should do so even better if he could have a little supper. Mrs. Moreen threw out more hints about the changes that were to be looked for, but she was such a mixture of smiles and shudders–she confessed she was very nervous–that he couldn’t tell if she were in high feather or only in hysterics. If the family was really at last going to pieces why shouldn’t she recognise the necessity of pitching Morgan into some sort of lifeboat? This presumption was fostered by the fact that they were established in luxurious quarters in the capital of pleasure; that was exactly where they naturally would be established in view of going to pieces. Moreover didn’t she mention that Mr. Moreen and the others were enjoying themselves at the opera with Mr. Granger, and wasn’t that also precisely where one would look for them on the eve of a smash? Pemberton gathered that Mr. Granger was a rich vacant American–a big bill with a flourishy heading and no items; so that one of Paula’s “ideas” was probably that this time she hadn’t missed fire–by which straight shot indeed she would have shattered the general cohesion. And if the cohesion was to crumble what would become of poor Pemberton? He felt quite enough bound up with them to figure to his alarm as a dislodged block in the edifice.