Keeping It From Harold

Mrs. Bramble regarded him fondly. A boy scout, had one been present, would have been struck by the extraordinary resemblance to a sheep surprised while gloating over its young.

ÒYes, dearie?Ó

ÒWill you hear me?Ó

Mrs. Bramble took the hook.

ÒYes, mother will hear you, precious.Ó

A slight frown marred the smoothness of Harold BrambleÕs brow.

It jarred upon him, this habit of his motherÕs of referring to herself in the third person, as if she were addressing a baby, instead of a young man of ten who had taken the spelling and dictation prize last term on his head.

He cleared his throat and fixed his eyes upon the cut-glass hangings of the chandelier.

ÒÔBe good, sweet maid,ÕÓ he began, with the toneless rapidity affected by youths of his age when reciting poetry, ÒÔand let who will be cleverÕ

Ñ clever, oh yes Ñ Ôdo noble things, not dream themÕ Ñ dream them, oh yes Ñ Ôdream them all day long; and so make life, death, and that vast fÕrever, oneÕ Ñ oh yes Ñ Ôone grand, sweet song.Õ I knew I knew it, and now I can do my Scripture.Ó

ÒYou do study so hard, dearie, youÕll go giving yourself a headache. Why donÕt you take a nice walk by the river for half an hour, and come back nice and fresh? ItÕs a nice evening, and you could do your Scripture nicely afterwards.Ó

The spectacled child considered the point for a moment gravely.

Then, nodding, he arranged his books in readiness for his return and went out. The front door closed with a decorous softness.

It was a constant source of amazement to Mrs. Bramble that she should have brought such a prodigy as Harold into the world. Harold was so different from ordinary children, so devoted to his books, such a model of behaviour, so altogether admirable. The only drawback was that his very perfection had made necessary a series of evasions and even deliberate falsehoods on the part of herself and her husband, highly distasteful to both. They were lovers of truth, but they had realized that there are times when truth must be sacrificed. At any cost the facts concerning Mr. BrambleÕs profession most be kept from Harold.

While he was a baby it had not mattered so much. But when he began to move about and take notice, Mrs. Bramble said to Mr. Bramble, ÒBill, we must keep it from Harold.Ó

A little later, when the child had begun to show signs of being about to become a model of goodness and intelligence, and had already taken two prizes at the Sunday-school, the senior curate of the parish, meeting Mr. Bramble one morning, said, nervously Ñ for, after all, it was a delicate subject to broach Ñ ÒEr Ñ Bramble, I think, on the whole, it would be as well to Ñ er Ñ keep it from Harold.Ó

And only the other day, Mrs. BrambleÕs brother, Major Percy Stokes, of the Salvation Army, dropping in for a cup of tea, had said ÒI hope you are keeping it from Harold. It is the least you can do,Ó and had gone on to make one or two remarks about men of wrath which, considering that his cheek-bones were glistening with Mr. BrambleÕs buttered toast, were in poor taste. But Percy was like that.

Enemies said that he liked the sound of his own voice, and could talk the hind-leg off a donkey. Certainly he was very persuasive. Once he had wrought so successfully with an emotional publican in East Dulwich that the latter had started then and there to give all that he had to the poor, beginning with his stock-in-trade. Seven policemen had almost failed to handle the situation.

Mr. Bramble had fallen in with the suggestion without demur. In private life he was the mildest and most obliging of men, and always yielded to everybody. The very naming of Harold had caused a sacrifice on his part.

When it was certain that he was about to become a father he had expressed a desire that the child should be named John, if a boy, after Mr. John L. Sullivan, or, if a girl, Marie, after Miss Marie Lloyd. But Mrs. Bramble saying that Harold was such a sweet name, he had withdrawn his suggestions with the utmost good-humour.