From One Generation to Another | Page 6

the somewhat crooked ways of her social creed.
"And when," she added, "I tell you to come to your mother, you must
come and kiss me."
This last item she further impressed upon him by the gift of an orange,
and then asked him if he understood.

After scratching his head meditatively for some moments, he looked
into her comely face with very steady blue eyes and said:
"I don't think so--not quite."
"Then," replied his stepmother angrily, "you are a very stupid little
boy--and you must go up to the nursery at once."
This puzzled Jem still more, and he walked upstairs reflecting deeply.
Years afterwards, when he was a man, the sunlight falling on the wall
through the skylight over the staircase had the power of bringing back
that moment to him--a moment when the world first began to open
itself before him and to puzzle him.
It happened that at that precise time when Mrs. Agar was endeavouring
To teach her little stepson the usages of polite society, a small,
keen-faced man was standing near the table in the smoking-room in the
Hotel Wagstaff at Suez. He was idly turning over the newspapers lying
there in the hopes of finding something comparatively recent in date.
Presently he came upon a copy of the _Times_, with which he repaired
to one of the long chairs on that verandah overlooking the desert which
some of us know only too well.
After idly conning the general news he glanced at the births, deaths,
and marriages, and there he read of the recent ceremony in the parish
church of Clapham.
"D----n it!" he muttered, with that racial love of an expletive which
makes a Jew a profane man.
In addition to a strong feeling of wounded vanity that Anna Hethbridge
should so soon have forgotten him, Seymour Michael was distinctly
disappointed that this heiress should no longer be within his reach. The
truth was, that the young lady in India had transferred her valuable
affections, with all solid appurtenances attaching thereto, to a young
officer in the Navy who had been invalided at Calcutta.

To men who intend, despite all and at any cost, to get on in the world
the first failures are usually very bitter. It is only those who press
stolidly forward without expecting much, who profit from a check.
Seymour Michael was just the man to fail by being too acute, too
unscrupulous. He was usually in such a hurry to help himself that he
never allowed another the very fruitful pleasure of giving.
In India his zeal had led him into one or two small mistakes to which
he himself attached no importance, but they were remembered against
him. He had cruelly thrown aside Anna Hethbridge when a richer
marriage offered itself. Now he had missed both bone and reflection,
and he sat with a smile on his dark face, looking out over the dreary
desert.

CHAPTER III
MERCURY
_The evil is sown, but the destruction thereof is not yet come._
James Edward Makerstone Agar was not at the age of five the material
from which the heroes of children's stories are evolved. He was not a
good boy, nor a clean, nor particularly interesting. He was, however,
honest--and that is _déjà quelque chose_. He was as far removed from
the "misunderstood" type as could be wished; and he was quite happy.
Before his stepmother had laid aside the title and glory of a bride, he
had, by his deadly honesty, made her understand that even a child of
five requires what she could not give him--namely, logic. Had she been
clever enough to reason logically she might have undermined the little
fellow's innate honesty of character, despite the fact that he lacked a
child's chief incentive to learn from its mother, namely, the sympathy
of heredity.
Gradually and steadily Mrs. Agar "gave him up," to make use of her
own expression. She was one of those women who either fear or

despise that which they do not understand. She could scarcely fear Jem,
so she persuaded herself that he was stupid and unattractive. At this
time there came another influence to militate against any excess of love
between Jem and his stepmother. It came to her, for he was ignorant of
it. And this was the knowledge that before long the little heir's
undisputed reign in the nursery would come to an end.
With a suburban horror of being a long distance from the chemist, Mrs.
Agar protested that she could not possibly remain at Stagholme during
the ensuing winter, and that her child must be born at Clapham. It was
vain to argue or reason, and at last the Squire was forced to swallow
this second humiliation, which was quite beyond his wife's
comprehension. He only