Of course, the strawberries, though he was very fond of them, were nothing in themselves; they were a symbol, they stood for his own strength. Half-smiling, he recapitulated. The table last night, Aunt Caroline, head on one side as usual, purring, portioning the luscious bowl of home-grown strawberries — a rare luxury on Barras’s austere table. And the cream too, he nearly forgot the big silver jug of yellow cream — nothing he liked better than strawberries and cream. “Now, Arthur,” he heard Aunt Caroline say, preparing to delve generously for him. Then, himself, quickly: “No thank you, Aunt Carrie. I shan’t have any strawberries to-night.” “But, Arthur…” Surprise, even consternation in Aunt Carrie’s voice; his father’s aloof eye fixed momentarily upon him. Aunt Carrie again: “Aren’t you well, Arthur, my dear?” Himself, laughing: “Perfectly well, Aunt Carrie, I just don’t feel like strawberries to-night.” He had sat, with watering teeth, watching them eat the strawberries.
That was the way to do it, a little thing, perhaps, but the book said bigger things would follow. Yes, he was satisfied this morning. “I do wish Arthur would show more character.” His mother’s petulant remark, overheard as he passed along the corridor outside her room, and fixed through all these months in the very centre of his mind, receded now, answered by his conduct towards the strawberries!
He jumped out of bed — it was wrong, really, to lie dreaming in bed — went through his exercises vigorously before the open window, dashed into the bathroom and took a cold bath: really cold, mind you, not a trickle, even, from the hot tap to temper the icy plunge. He came back to his room, glowing, dressed in his working suit with his eyes fixed religiously upon the placard which hung on the wall opposite his bed. The placard said in large heavily inked letters: I will! Beneath this was another: “Look every man straight between the eyes!”
Arthur finished lacing his boots, his heavy boots, for he would be going inbye today, and was ready. He went to a drawer, unlocked it and picked out a small red book; The Cure of Self-consciousness, one of a series of such books entitled The Will and the Way—and sat down seriously upon the edge of his bed to read. He always read one chapter before breakfast when, as the book declared, the mind was most receptive; and he preferred his bedroom because of its privacy — these little red books were a secret, guarded jealously.
Outside the edge of his concentration he heard the movements of the house: the slow pad, pad of Aunt Carrie in his mother’s room, Grace’s laugh and scurry towards the bathroom, the sullen thud of Hilda overhead as she grudgingly got out of bed to face the day. His father had been up an hour ago; early rising was part of his father’s routine, inevitable somehow, never questioned, expected.
Arthur paused momentarily in his reading: The human will is capable of controlling not only the destiny of one man but the destinies of many men. That faculty of mind which determines either to do or forbear to do, that faculty whereby we determine, among two courses, which we shall embrace or pursue can affect not only our own lives but the lives of many others.
How true that was! If only for that single reason one must cultivate the will — not for the effects upon oneself but for these wide and far-flung consequences upon others. He wanted to be strong, to have control, resolution, mastery over himself. He knew his own defects, his natural shyness and awkwardness, his proneness to burrow in his own reserve, but beyond everything his incorrigible tendency to dream.
Like all gentle and sensitive natures, he was tempted to escape from the harsh reality of life through the gateway of his imagination. How wonderful were these dreams! How often he saw himself performing some terrific act of heroism at the Neptune… or perhaps it was a little child he saved from drowning or from an express train, walking away quietly without giving his name, only to be discovered afterwards and carried shoulder high by a delirious crowd… or it was a hulking brute he knocked out for bullying a woman… or he stood upon a platform, spellbinding an enormous audience with his oratory… or again, at some select dinner table, partnered by Hetty Todd, he fascinated her and the company at large by the ease and brilliance of his address… oh, there was no limit to the dazzling wonder of those dreams. But he realised their danger, he had put them behind him, he would be strong now, magnificently strong. He was nearly nineteen; in a year would finish his course in mining engineering. Life had… oh yes, life really had begun, and it was necessary to bring courage to bear upon it. Courage and determination. I will, Arthur said firmly, closing the book and staring zealously at the placard. He shut his eyes tight and repeated the phrase several times into himself, burning the words, as it were, into his soul. I will, I will, I will… Then he went down to breakfast.
His father, who preferred to breakfast half an hour before the others, had almost finished; he was drinking a last cup of coffee, reflectively, with the paper on his knee. He nodded silently in answer to Arthur’s good morning. There was nothing peremptory in that nod, none of the freezing curtness which sometimes cut Arthur to the bone. The nod this morning held an indulgent tranquillity: it fell upon Arthur like a caress, it reinforced, admitted his devotion, acknowledged him as an individual. He smiled with happiness, began intently to chip the top from his egg, warmly conscious of his father’s continued gaze.
“I think, Arthur,” Barras said, suddenly, as though he had decided to speak, “I think we may have interesting news today.”
“Yes, father?”
“We have the prospect of a contract.”
“Yes, father?” Arthur looked up blushing. That “We” simply was magnificent, including him, making him one with his father, enrolling him already as a partner in the mine.
“A first-rate contract, I may add, with P. W. & Company.”
“Yes, father.”
“You’re pleased?” Barras inquired with amiable satire.
“Oh yes, father.”
Barras nodded again.
“It’s our coking coal they want. I had begun to think we should never get started on that seam again. But if they meet our price we shall start work there next week. Start to strip the Dyke in Scupper Flats.”
“When shall you know, father?”
“This morning,” Barras answered; and as though Arthur’s direct question had made him suddenly resent his previous unbending, he raised his paper and from behind it said authoritatively: “Be ready at nine sharp, please. I don’t wish to be kept waiting.”
Arthur returned to his egg industriously, gratified at the information he had received. But suddenly a thought disturbed him. He remembered something… something most disturbing. Scupper Flats! He lifted his eyes quickly towards the screened figure of his father. He wanted to ask… he most terribly wanted to ask a question. Should he, could he, or had be better not? While he vacillated, Aunt Carrie came in with Grace and Hilda. Aunt Carrie wore her usual look of pleasantness which she put on every morning, regularly, naturally, just as she put in her false teeth.
“Your mother’s had a splendid night.” Brightly she apostrophised Arthur. Though the information was for Richard, Carrie knew better than address him outright: all Aunt Carrie’s methods were indirect, protective of her own and the general peace.
Arthur passed her the toast without hearing a word. His mind was focused entirely upon his own disturbing thought… Scupper Flats. He did not feel half so happy now, he began to feel worried and upset. He kept his eyes upon his plate. And under his brooding the splendour of the morning slowly waned. He could have cried out with vexation: why should it always be, this sudden turn of his being from ecstatic lightness to heaviness and dismay?