The Old Wives' Tale HTML version

II.4. Crime
"Now, Master Cyril," Amy protested, "will you leave that fire alone? It's not you
that can mend my fires."
A boy of nine, great and heavy for his years, with a full face and very short hair,
bent over the smoking grate. It was about five minutes to eight on a chilly
morning after Easter. Amy, hastily clad in blue, with a rough brown apron, was
setting the breakfast table. The boy turned his head, still bending.
"Shut up, Ame," he replied, smiling. Life being short, he usually called her Ame
when they were alone together. "Or I'll catch you one in the eye with the poker."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Amy. "And you know your mother
told you to wash your feet this morning, and you haven't done. Fine clothes is all
very well, but--"
"Who says I haven't washed my feet?" asked Cyril, guiltily.
Amy's mention of fine clothes referred to the fact that he was that morning
wearing his Sunday suit for the first time on a week- day.
"I say you haven't," said Amy.
She was more than three times his age still, but they had been treating each
other as intellectual equals for years.
"And how do you know?" asked Cyril, tired of the fire.
"I know," said Amy.
"Well, you just don't, then!" said Cyril. "And what about YOUR feet? I should be
sorry to see your feet, Ame."
Amy was excusably annoyed. She tossed her head. "My feet are as clean as
yours any day," she said. "And I shall tell your mother."
But he would not leave her feet alone, and there ensued one of those endless
monotonous altercations on a single theme which occur so often between
intellectual equals when one is a young son of the house and the other an
established servant who adores him. Refined minds would have found the talk
disgusting, but the sentiment of disgust seemed to be unknown to either of the
wranglers. At last, when Amy by superior tactics had cornered him, Cyril said
"Oh, go to hell!"
Amy banged down the spoon for the bacon gravy. "Now I shall tell your mother.
Mark my words, this time I SHALL tell your mother."
Cyril felt that in truth he had gone rather far. He was perfectly sure that Amy
would not tell his mother. And yet, supposing that by some freak of her nature
she did! The consequences would be unutterable; the consequences would more
than extinguish his private glory in the use of such a dashing word. So he
laughed, a rather silly, giggling laugh, to reassure himself.
"You daren't," he said.
"Daren't I?" she said grimly. "You'll see. I don't know where you learn! It fair beats
me. But it isn't Amy Bates as is going to be sworn at. As soon as ever your
mother comes into this room!"
The door at the foot of the stairs creaked and Constance came into the room.
She was wearing a dress of majenta merino, and a gold chain descended from