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Authors: Taylor Caldwell
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survived and bred their kind. His father had been a sensible man. “Water never rises higher than its source, Mark,” he had said. “Fools breed fools. All the education in the world won’t make a clever man out of a congenital idiot, and that’s something the educators will have to learn. Nature stubbornly refuses to be democratic, and create all children equally endowed with intelligence and character, and the sentimentalists can talk themselves blue in the face about environment, and nature will go on denying them. Why, some of our greatest men came from broken homes and slums and the most hellish poverty, and some of our worst criminals have come from what the jargonists call superior environment. What’s bred in the bone is born in the flesh.”
Mark stirred uneasily on the fence, and swung his legs. Bruce had been born of intelligent parents; Kathy might be a sentimental fool at times, but she never fooled herself that she was intrinsically sincere and meant what she said. She knew she was a hypocrite, and it took intelligence to understand that. But, in her own way she was a good woman. He, Mark, did not love her, and sometimes could not endure her, but he had to admit that she possessed many good qualities. It was unfortunate that she had not had more children; her mind would have been diverted from her son, to his own benefit and hers. And to mine, too, thought Mark, with a quick falling of his spirits.
He stood up and whistled and called for his son again. And there he was, strolling across the lawns toward the house, and smiling that secret smile of his. The little dog was not with him. He had something sharp like an animal’s awareness, and he swung about and looked at his father across the grass, then came running. But he stopped a considerable distance from the bluff, and Mark went to him, smiling. What a good-looking kid he was! Mark’s heart softened.
“Where’ve you been, son?” he asked. Angelo looked up at him with his wide and innocent gaze. His red underlip trembled. “Why, I’ve been looking for Petti. He ran into the woods, Daddy, and I followed him, and I can’t find him.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mark, taking his hand. “Dogs like to run and snuff in the woods. He’s probably chasing a rabbit. Spaniels are hunters, you know. They were bred for hunting; they can sometimes hunt better than beagles, and Petti’s a purebred dog. Let’s go find him. How long has he been gone?”
“Oh, a long time,” said Angelo vaguely. “Right after lunch.”
“But that was three hours ago,” said Mark. “Haven’t you seen him since?”
“No, Daddy.” The hazel eyes wavered, then filled with tears.
“Never mind,” said Mark uncomfortably. Angelo might be nearly seven, but he looked almost ten, because of his height and general muscular build. “Let’s go into the woods and call him.”
“I think I’m tired,” said Angelo, pulling his hand away.
“I think I’ll get some milk and a sandwich. It’s time for my snack.”
“You drink too much milk,” said Mark, annoyed. “Your mother says it’s good for you, but I don’t know. Now look here, son. Petti is your charge; he’s your responsibility. Nothing in the woods can hurt him, but he might run far down to the road where he could be hit by a car, or get lost. I wish you wouldn’t say ‘snack.’ I’m prejudiced about that. I hate the word.”
Angelo smiled suddenly. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds girlish, I suppose. Now come along; we’ve got to find that dog.”
“You dislike a lot of words,” said Angelo. “Such as cozy and homey and comfy. They’re Mum’s favorites. And you hate to hear Mum’s friends talk about complexes and inferiority feelings, and what you call jargon.” His eyes were sly and sparkling.
Mark smiled in return. He rumpled the dark-red curls, and Angelo, as usual, was suddenly still and unsmiling at the caress. “You’re a bright kid,” said Mark. “You’ve got a
Mark stirred uneasily on the fence, and swung his legs. Bruce had been born of intelligent parents; Kathy might be a sentimental fool at times, but she never fooled herself that she was intrinsically sincere and meant what she said. She knew she was a hypocrite, and it took intelligence to understand that. But, in her own way she was a good woman. He, Mark, did not love her, and sometimes could not endure her, but he had to admit that she possessed many good qualities. It was unfortunate that she had not had more children; her mind would have been diverted from her son, to his own benefit and hers. And to mine, too, thought Mark, with a quick falling of his spirits.
He stood up and whistled and called for his son again. And there he was, strolling across the lawns toward the house, and smiling that secret smile of his. The little dog was not with him. He had something sharp like an animal’s awareness, and he swung about and looked at his father across the grass, then came running. But he stopped a considerable distance from the bluff, and Mark went to him, smiling. What a good-looking kid he was! Mark’s heart softened.
“Where’ve you been, son?” he asked. Angelo looked up at him with his wide and innocent gaze. His red underlip trembled. “Why, I’ve been looking for Petti. He ran into the woods, Daddy, and I followed him, and I can’t find him.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mark, taking his hand. “Dogs like to run and snuff in the woods. He’s probably chasing a rabbit. Spaniels are hunters, you know. They were bred for hunting; they can sometimes hunt better than beagles, and Petti’s a purebred dog. Let’s go find him. How long has he been gone?”
“Oh, a long time,” said Angelo vaguely. “Right after lunch.”
“But that was three hours ago,” said Mark. “Haven’t you seen him since?”
“No, Daddy.” The hazel eyes wavered, then filled with tears.
“Never mind,” said Mark uncomfortably. Angelo might be nearly seven, but he looked almost ten, because of his height and general muscular build. “Let’s go into the woods and call him.”
“I think I’m tired,” said Angelo, pulling his hand away.
“I think I’ll get some milk and a sandwich. It’s time for my snack.”
“You drink too much milk,” said Mark, annoyed. “Your mother says it’s good for you, but I don’t know. Now look here, son. Petti is your charge; he’s your responsibility. Nothing in the woods can hurt him, but he might run far down to the road where he could be hit by a car, or get lost. I wish you wouldn’t say ‘snack.’ I’m prejudiced about that. I hate the word.”
Angelo smiled suddenly. “Why?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds girlish, I suppose. Now come along; we’ve got to find that dog.”
“You dislike a lot of words,” said Angelo. “Such as cozy and homey and comfy. They’re Mum’s favorites. And you hate to hear Mum’s friends talk about complexes and inferiority feelings, and what you call jargon.” His eyes were sly and sparkling.
Mark smiled in return. He rumpled the dark-red curls, and Angelo, as usual, was suddenly still and unsmiling at the caress. “You’re a bright kid,” said Mark. “You’ve got a
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