I
s he like what you expected, Elsa?" asked Frances, when they were in their own room.
"Who? Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot? I'm sure I don't know. I don't think I ever thought about what he'd be like."
"Oh, Ihadan idea," said Frances. "Quite different, of course, from what he really is. I had fancied he'd be tall and stooping, and with a big nose and very queer eyes. I think I must have mixed him up with the old godfather in the 'Nutcracker of Nuremberg,' without knowing it."
"Well, he's not so bad as that, anyway," said Elsa. "He looks rather shrivelled and dried up; but he's so very neat and refined-looking. Did you notice what small brown hands he has, and suchverybright eyes? Isn't it funny that he's only an adopted uncle, after all?"
"I think mamma had really forgotten he wasn't our real uncle," said Frances. "Elsa, I am very glad he has come. I think poor mamma has been far more unhappy than she let us know. She does look so ill."
"It's half of it Geoff," said Elsa, indignantly. "And now he must needs spoil Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's arrival by his tempers. Perhaps it's just as well, however. 'By the pricking of my thumbs,' I fancy Geoff has met his master."
"Elsa, you frighten me a little," said Frances. "You don't think he'll be very severe with poor Geoff?"
"I don't think he'll be more severe than is for Geoff's good," replied Elsa. "I must confess, though, I shouldn't like to face Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot if I felt I had been behaving badly. How his eyes can gleam!"
"And how he seemed to flash in upon us all of a sudden, and to disappear almost as quickly! I'm afraid there's something a little bit uncanny about him," said Frances, who was very imaginative. "But if he helps to put all the money troubles right, he will certainly be like a good fairy to us."
"Yes; and if he takes Geoff in hand," added Elsa. "But, Frances, we must go to bed. I want to make everything very nice to-morrow; I'm going to think about what to have for dinner while I go to sleep."
For Elsa was housekeeper—a very zealous and rather anxious-minded young housekeeper. Her dreams were often haunted by visions of bakers' books and fishmongers' bills; to-night curry and pilau chased each other through her brain, and Frances was aroused from her first sweet slumbers to be asked if she would remember to look first thing to-morrow morning if there was a bottle of chutney in the store-closet.
ELSA_WAS_HOUSEKEEPER.
At breakfast Geoff came in, looking glum and slightly defiant. But he said nothing except "Good morning." He started, however, a little, when he saw his mother.
"Mamma," he said, "are you not well? You look so very pale."
The girls glanced up at this. It was true. They had not observed it in the excitement of discussing the new arrival, and the satisfaction of knowing it had brought relief to Mrs. Tudor's most pressing anxieties.
"Yes, mamma dear. It is true. You do look very pale. Now, you must not do anything to tire yourself all day. We will manage everything, so that Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot shall see we are not silly useless girls," said Elsa.
Geoffrey's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but he closed them again. He was still on his high horse.
"Geoff," said his mother, as he was leaving, "you will dine with us this evening. Try to get your lessons done quickly. Uncle will wish to see something of you."
He muttered an indistinct "Very well, mamma," as he shut the door.
"Humph!" he said to himself, "I suppose Elsa will want to make him think I'm properly treated. ButIshall tell him the truth—anymanwill understand how impossible it is for me to stand it any longer. I don't mind if he did hear me shouting last night. There's a limit to endurance. But I wish mamma didn't look so pale. Of course they'll make out it's allmyfault."
And feeling himself and his grievances of even more consequence than usual, Master Geoff stalked off.
Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot made his appearance in the afternoon rather earlier than he was expected. He found Mrs. Tudor alone in the drawing-room, and had a talk with her by themselves, and then Vicky was sent for, to make his acquaintance. The little girl came into the drawing-room looking very much on her good behaviour indeed—so much so that Elsa and Frances, who were with her, could scarcely help laughing.
"How do you do, my dear?" said her great-uncle, looking at her with his bright eyes.
"Quite well, thank you," replied the little girl.
"Hoot-toot!" said the old gentleman; "and is that all you've got to say to me?—a poor old fellow like me, who have come all the way from India to see you."
Vicky looked up doubtfully, her blue eyes wandered all over Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's queer brown face and trim little figure. A red flush spread slowly upwards from her cheeks to the roots of her fair hair, and by the peculiar droop in the corners of her mouth, Elsa, who was nearest her, saw that tears were not far off.
"What is it, Vicky dear?" she whispered. "Whatwillhe think of the children? Geoff in a temper, and Vicky crying for nothing!" she said to herself. "You are not frightened?" she added aloud.
"No," said Vicky, trying to recover herself. "It's only about Geoff. I want to ask—him—not to be angry with Geoff."
"And why should I be angry with Geoff?" said the old gentleman, his eyes twinkling. "Has he been saying so to you?"
"Oh no!" the little girl eagerly replied. "Geoff didn't say anything. It was Harvey and Martha. They said they hoped he'd find his master nowyou'dcome, and that it was time he had some of his nonsense whipped out of him. You won't whip him, will you? Oh, please, please say you won't!" and she clasped her hands beseechingly. "Geoff isn't naughtyreally. He doesn't mean to be naughty."
The tears were very near now.
"Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said Mr. Byrne. "Come, come, my little Vic; I don't like this at all. So they've been making me out an ogre. That's too bad. Me whip Geoff! Why, I think he could better whip me—a strong, sturdy fellow like that. No, no, I don't want to whip him, I assure you. But I'm glad to see Geoff's got such a good little sister, and that she's so fond of him. He's not a bad brother to you, I hope? You couldn't be so fond of him if he were."
"Oh no; Geoff's not naughty to me, scarcelynever," said Vicky, eagerly. "I'm sure he never wants to be naughty. It's just that he's got some bad habits, of teasing and grumbling, and he can't get out of them," she went on, with a little air of wisdom that was very funny.
"Exactly," said Uncle Hoot-Toot, nodding his head. "Well, don't you think it would be a very good thing if we could help him to get out of them?"
Vicky looked up doubtfully again.
"If I think of some plan—something that may really do him good, you'll trust your poor old uncle, won't you, my little Vic?"
She gave him a long steady stare.
"Yes," she said at last. Then with a sigh, "I would like Geoff to get out of his tiresome ways."
And from this time Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot and Vicky were fast friends.
Then he asked Elsa and Frances to go out a little walk with him.
"Is your mother always as pale as I have seen her?" he said abruptly, almost as soon as they were alone.
Elsa hesitated.
"No," she said at last. "I'm afraid she is not at all well. Geoff noticed it this morning."
"Oh, indeed! Then he does notice things sometimes?" said Mr. Byrne, drily.
"He's very fond of mamma," put in Frances.
"He takes a queer way to show it, it strikes me," remarked her uncle.
"It's—it's all his temper, I'm afraid," Frances allowed reluctantly.
"It is that he's spoilt," said Elsa. "He's perhaps not spoilt in one way, but in another he is. He has never known any hardships or been forced into any self-denial. Great-uncle," she went on earnestly, "if it's true that we have lost or are going to lose nearly all our money, won't it perhaps be a good thing for Geoff?"
"Who says you're going to lose your money?"
"I don't know exactly why I feel sure it's not coming right. I know you said so to mamma—at least you tried to make her happier; but I can't understand it. If that Mr. Norris wrote so strongly, there must be something wrong."
Mr. Byrne moved and looked at her sharply.
"You don't speak that way to your mother, I hope?"
"Of course not," said Elsa; "I'm only too glad for her to feel happier about it. I was only speaking of what I thought myself."
"Well—well—as long as your mother's mind is easier it doesn't matter. I cannot explain things fully to you at present, but you seem to be sensible girls, and girls to be trusted. I may just tell you this much—all this trouble is nothing new; I had seen it coming for years. The only thing I had not anticipated was that those fools of lawyers should have told your mother about the crash when it did come. There was no need for her to know anything about it. I'm her trustee——"
"But not legally," interrupted Elsa. "Mamma explained to us that you couldn't be held responsible, as it was only like a friend that you had helped her all these years."
"Hoot-toot, toot-toot!" he replied testily; "what difference does that make? But never mind. I will explain all about it to you both—before long. Just now the question is your mother. I think you will agree with me when I say that it is plain to me that Master Geoff should leave home?"
"I'm afraid mamma will be very much against it," said Elsa. "You see, Geoff is a good boy in big things, and mamma thinks it is owing to her having kept home influence over him. He's truthful and conscientious—he is, indeed, and you must see I'm not inclined to take his part."
"But he's selfish, and bullying, and ungrateful. Not pretty qualities, my dear, or likely to make a good foundation for a man's after-life. I'm not going to send him to a grand boarding-school, however—that I promise you, for I think it would be the ruin of him. Whatever I may do to save your mother, I don't see but that Master Geoff should face his true position."
"And we too, great-uncle," said Frances, eagerly. "Elsa and I are quite ready to work; we've thought of several plans already."
"I quite believe you, my dear," said Mr. Byrne, approvingly. "You shall tell me your plans some time soon, and I will tell you mine. No fear but that you shall have work to do."
"And——" began Elsa, but then she hesitated. "I was going to ask you not to decide anything about Geoff till you have seen more of him. If Frances and I could earn enough to keep him at school as he is, so that mamma could have the comf—— No, I'm afraid I can't honestly say that having Geoff at home would be any comfort to her—less than ever if Frances and I were away. Great-uncle, don't you think Geoff should have some idea of all this?"
"Certainly. But I cannot risk his teasing your mother. We will wait a few days. I should like to see poor Alice looking better; and I shall judge of Geoff for myself, my dears."
They were just at home again by this time. Vicky met them at the door. She was in great excitement about Mr. Byrne's Indian servant, who had come with his master's evening clothes.
"I was watching for Geoff, to tell him!" she exclaimed. "But my tea's ready; I must go." And off she ran.
"Good little girl," said Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot, nodding his head approvingly. "No grumbling fromher, eh?"
"No, never," said Elsa, warmly. "She's having her tea alone to-day. Geoff's coming in to dinner in your honour."
"Humph!" said the old gentleman.
Geoff's_interview_with_Great-Uncle_Hoot-TootGEOFF'S INTERVIEW WITH GREAT-UNCLE HOOT-TOOT.Click toENLARGE
M
Mrs. Tudor and the two girls had gone upstairs to the drawing-room. Geoff glanced dubiously at Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot.
"Shall I—shall I stay with you, sir?" he asked.
Geoff was on his good behaviour.
The old gentleman glanced at him.
"Certainly, my boy, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "No lessons—eh?"
"No, sir," Geoff replied. "I've got all done, except a little I can do in the morning."
"They work you pretty hard, eh?"
"Yes, they do. There's not much fun for a fellow who's at school in London. It's pretty much the same story—grind, grind, from one week's end to another."
"Hoot-toot! That sounds melancholy," said Mr. Byrne. "No holidays, eh?"
"Oh, of course, I've some holidays," said Geoff. "But, you see, when a fellow has only got a mother and sisters——"
"Only," repeated the old gentleman; but Geoff detected no sarcasm in his tone.
"And mother's afraid of my skating, or boating on the river, or——"
"Doesn't she let you go in for the school games?" interrupted Mr. Byrne again.
"Oh yes; it would be too silly not to dothat. I told her at the beginning—I mean, she understood—it wouldn't do. But there's lots of things I'd like to do, if mother wasn't afraid. I should like to ride, or at least to have a tricycle. It's about the only thing to make life bearable in this horrible place. Such weather! I do hate London!"
"Indeed!" said Mr. Byrne. "It's a pity your mother didn't consult you before settling here."
"She did it for the best, I suppose," said Geoff. "She didn't want to part with me, you see. But I'd rather have been at a boarding-school in the country; I do so detest London. And then it's not pleasant to be too poor to have things one should have at a public school."
"What may those be?" inquired the old gentleman.
"Oh, heaps of things. Pocket-money, for one thing. I was telling mother about it. I really should have more, if I'm to stay properly at school. There's Dick Colethorne, where I was staying last holidays—cousins of ours; he has six times what I have, and he's only two years older."
"And—is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?" asked Mr. Byrne.
"Oh no," replied Geoff, unwarily. "His father's a very rich man; and Dick is the only child."
"All the same, begging Mr. Colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as Crœsus, I think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said Mr. Byrne.
"Well, of course, I shouldn't want as much as he has," said Geoff; "but still——"
"Geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. But we'll have some more talk about all this. I don't want to keep your mother waiting, as I promised to talk some more toherthis evening. So we'll go upstairs. Some day, perhaps, I'll tell you some of the experiences ofmyboyhood. I'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine."
"No-o," said Geoff. "That's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. I'd like to talk about it with you, sir; I don't see but that at my age I might now and then take a glass of sherry—or of claret, even. It looks so foolish never to touch any. It's not that Icareabout it, you know."
"At your age?" repeated Mr. Byrne, slowly. "Well, Geoff—do you know, I don't quite agree with you. Nor do I see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about."
They were half-way upstairs by this time. Geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room.
"He's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to Vicky; "I believe Elsa's been setting him against me."
Vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "Oh, Geoff," she said, "I do think he's so nice."
"You do, do you?" said he. "Well, I don't. I'll tell you what, Vicky; I've a great mind to run away. I do so hate this life. I work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and I never get any thanks for it; and everything I want is grudged me. My umbrella's all in rags, and I'm ashamed to take it out; and if I was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see."
"But you haven't had it long, Geoff," said Vic.
"I've had it nearly a year. You're getting as bad as the rest, Vicky," he said querulously.
He had forgotten that he was not alone in the room with his little sister, and had raised his tone, as he was too much in the habit of doing.
"Hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said a now well-known voice from the other side of the room; "what's all that about over there? You and Victoria can't be quarrelling, surely?"
Mrs. Tudor looked up anxiously.
"Oh no," said Vicky, eagerly; "we were only talking."
"And about what, pray?" persisted Mr. Byrne.
Vicky hesitated. She did not want to vex Geoff, but she was unused to any but straightforward replies.
"About Geoff's umbrella," she said, growing very red.
"About Geoff's umbrella?" repeated the old gentleman. "What could there be so interesting and exciting to say about Geoff's umbrella?"
"Only that I haven't got one—at least, mine's in rags; and if I say I need a new one, they'll all be down upon me for extravagance," said Geoff, as sulkily as he dared.
"My dear boy, don't talk in that dreadfully aggrieved tone," said his mother, trying to speak lightly. "You know I have never refused you anything you really require."
Geoffrey did not reply, at least not audibly. But Elsa's quick ears and some other ears besides hers—for it is a curious fact that old people, when they are not deaf, are often peculiarly the reverse—caught his muttered whisper.
"Of course. Always the way ifIwant anything."
Mr. Byrne did not stay late. He saw that Mrs. Tudor looked tired and depressed, and he did not wish to be alone with her to talk about Geoff, as she probably would have done, for he could not have spoken of the boy as she would have wished to hear.
A few days passed. Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot spent a part of each with the Tudor family, quietly making his observations. Geoff certainly did not show to advantage; and though his mother wore herself out with talking to him and trying to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, it was of no use. So at last she took Elsa's advice and left the discontented, tiresome boy to himself, for perhaps the first time in his life.
And every evening, when alone with Victoria, the selfish boy entertained his poor little sister with his projects of running away from a home where he was so little appreciated.
But a change came, and that in a way which Geoffrey little expected.
One evening when Mr. Byrne said "Good night," it struck him that his niece looked particularly tired.
"Make your mother go to bed at once, Elsa," he said, "I don't like her looks. If she's not better to-morrow, I must have a doctor to see her. And," he added in a lower tone still, "don't let Geoffrey go near her to-morrow morning. Has he bothered her much lately?"
"Mamma has left him alone. It was much the best thing to do," Elsa replied. "But all the same, I can see that it is making her very unhappy."
"Time something should be done; that's growing very plain," said Mr. Byrne. "Try and keep her quiet in the mean time, my dear. I have nearly made up my mind, and I'll tell you all about it to-morrow."
Elsa felt rather frightened.
"Great-uncle," she said, "I don't want to make silly excuses for Geoff, but it is true that he has never been quite so ill-natured and worrying as lately."
"Or perhaps you have never seen it so plainly," said the old gentleman. "But you needn't think I require to be softened to him, my dear; I am only thinking of his good. He's not a bad lad at bottom; there's good stuff in him. But he's ruining himself, and half killing your mother. Life's been too easy to him, as you've said yourself. He needs bringing to his senses."
Geoff slept soundly; moreover, his room was at the top of the house. He did not hear any disturbance that night—the opening and shutting of doors, the anxious whispering voices, the sound of wheels driving rapidly up to the door. He knew nothing of it all. For, alas! his tiresome, fidgety temper had caused him to be looked upon as no better than a sort of naughty child in the house—of no use or assistance, concerning whom every one's first thought in any trouble was, "We must manage to get Geoff out of the way, or to keep him quiet."
When he awoke it was still dark. But there was a light in his room—some one had come in with a candle. It was Elsa. He rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a strange unreal feeling, as if he were still dreaming. And when he saw her face, the unreal feeling did not go away. She seemed so unlike herself, in her long white dressing-gown, the light of the candle she was holding making her look so pale, and her eyes so strained and anxious—wasit the candle, or was she really so very pale?
IT_WAS_ELSA."Elsa," he said sleepily, "what are you doing? What is the matter? Isn't it dreadfully late—or—or early for you to be up?" he went on confusedly.
"It's the morning," said Elsa, "but we haven't been in bed all night—Frances and I. At least, we had only been in bed half an hour or so, when we were called up."
"What was it?" asked Geoff, sleepily still. "Was the house on fire?"
"Oh, Geoff, don't be silly!" said Elsa; "it's—it's much worse. Mamma has been so ill—she is still."
Geoff started up now.
"Do you want me to go for the doctor?" he said.
"The doctor has been twice already, and he's coming back at nine o'clock," she answered sadly. "He thought her a tiny bit better when he came the last time. But she's very ill—she must be kept mostexceedinglyquiet, and——"
"I'll get up now at once," said Geoff; "I won't be five minutes, Elsa. Tell mamma I'd have got up before if I'd known."
"But, Geoff," said Elsa, firmly, though reluctantly, "it's no use your hurrying up for that. You can't see her—you can't possibly see her before you go to school, anyway. The doctor says she is to be keptperfectlyquiet, and not worried in any way."
"I wouldn't worry her, not when she's ill," said Geoff, hastily.
"You couldn't help it," said Elsa. "She—she was very worried about you last night, and she kept talking about your umbrella in a confused sort of way now and then all night. We quieted her at last by telling her we had given you one to go to school with. But if she saw you, even for an instant, she would begin again. The doctor said you were not to go into her room."
A choking feeling had come into Geoff's throat when Elsa spoke about the umbrella; a very little more and he would have burst into tears of remorse. But as she went on, pride and irritation got the better of him. He was too completely unused to think of or for any one before himself, to be able to do so all of a sudden, and it was a sort of relief to burst out at his sister in the old way.
"I think you're forgetting yourself, Elsa. Is mamma not as much tomeas to you girls? Do you think. I haven't the sense to know how to behave when any one's ill? I tell you I just will and shall go to see her, whatever you say;" and he began dragging on his socks as if he were going to rush down to his mother's room that very moment.
Elsa grew still paler than she had been before.
"Geoff," she said, "you must listen to me. It was for that I came up to tell you. You mustnotcome into mother's room. I'd do anything to prevent it, but I can't believe that you'll force me to quarrel with you this morning when—when we are all so unhappy. I don't want to make you more unhappy, but I can't help speaking plainly to you. Youhaveworried mamma terribly lately, Geoff, and now you must bear the punishment. It's—it's as much as her life is worth for you to go into her room and speak to her this morning. I cannot allow it."
"Youallow it!" burst out Geoff. "Are you the head of the house?"
"Yes," said Elsa, "when mamma is ill, I consider that I am. And what's more, Geoff, I have telegraphed to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. He made me promise to do so if mamma were ill. I expect him directly. It is past seven. Geoff, you had better dress and take your breakfast as usual. I will come down and tell you how mamma is the last thing before you go."
"Iwillsee mamma before I go to school," he replied sharply. "I give you fair warning."
"Geoff," said Elsa, "you shall not."
And with these words she left the room.
"Humph!" said the old gentleman.
G
eoff hurried on with his dressing. He was wretchedly unhappy—all the more so because he was furiously angry with Elsa, and perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, with himself.
His room was, as I have said, at the top of the house. He did not hear the front-door bell ring while he was splashing in his bath; and as he rushed downstairs a quarter of an hour or so after Elsa had left him, he was considerably taken aback to be met at the foot of the first flight by the now familiar figure of Mr. Byrne.
"Geoffrey," he said quietly, "your sisters have gone to lie down and try to sleep for a little. They have been up all night, and they are likely to want all their strength. Go down to the school-room and get your breakfast. When you have finished, I will come to talk to you a little before you go to school."
Geoff glanced up. There was something in Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's face which made him feel there was no use in blustering or resisting.
"Very well," he said, putting as little expression in his voice as he could; and as Mr. Byrne turned away, the boy made his way down to the school-room.
It looked dreary and strange this morning. It was earlier than usual, and perhaps the room had been less carefully done, for Mrs. Tudor's illness had upset the whole household. The fire was only just lighted; the preparations for Geoff's breakfast were only half ready. It was a very chilly day; and as the boy sat down by the table, leaning his head on his hands, he shivered both with cold and unhappiness.
"They all hate me," he said to himself. "I've known it for a long time, but I've never been so sure of it before. It is much the best for me to go away. Mammahascared for me; but they're making her leave off, and they'll set her entirely against me. She'll be far better and happier without me; and when she gets well—I dare say they have exaggerated her illness—they will have the pleasure of saying it's because I'm gone. There's only Vic who'll really care. But she won't mind so very much, either. I'll write to her now and then. I must think how best to do about going away. I hate the sea; there's no use thinking of that. I don't mind what I do, if it's in the country. I might go down to some farmhouse—one of those jolly farms where Dick and I used to get a glass of milk last summer. I wouldn't mind a bit, working on one of those farms. It would be much jollier than grinding away at school. And I am sure Dick and I did as much work as any haymakers last summer."
He had worked himself up into positively looking forward to the idea of leaving home. Vague ideas of how his mother and sisters would learn too late how little they had appreciated him; visions of magnanimously forgiving them all some day when he should have, in some mysterious way, become a landed proprietor, riding about his fields, and of inviting them all down into the country to visit him, floated before his brain. He ate his breakfast with a very good appetite; and when Mr. Byrne entered the room, he was surprised to see no look of sulkiness on the boy's face; though, on the other hand, there were no signs of concern or distress.
"Is he reallyheartless?" thought the old man, with a pang of disappointment. "Am I mistaken in thinking the good material is there?"
"I want to talk to you, Geoff," he said. "You are early this morning. You need not start for twenty minutes or more."
"Am I to understand you intend to prevent me seeing my mother, sir?" said Geoff, in a peculiar tone.
Mr. Byrne looked at him rather sadly.
"It is notIpreventing it," he said. "The doctor has left his orders."
"I understand," said Geoff, bitterly. "Well, it does not much matter. Mother and the others are not likely to see much more of me."
The old gentleman looked at him sharply.
"Are you thinking of running away?" he said.
"Not running away," said Geoffrey. "I'm not going to do it in any secret sort of way; but I've made up my mind to go. And now that mother has thrown me over too, I don't suppose any one will care."
"You've not been going the way to make any one care, it strikes me," said Mr. Byrne. "But I have something to say to you, Geoff. One thing which has helped to make your poor mother ill has been anxiety about money matters. I had not wished her to know of it; but it was told her by mistake. I myself have known for some time that things were going wrong. But now the worst has come——"
I_HAVE_SOMETHING_TO_SAY."What is the worst?" asked Geoffrey. "Have we lost everything?"
"Yes," said Mr. Byrne, "I think that's about it."
"I think I should have been told this before," said Geoff.
"Well," said his uncle, "I'm not sure but that I agree with you. But your mother wished to save you as long as she could. And you have not borne small annoyances so well that she could hope for much comfort from you in a great trouble."
Geoff said nothing.
"I shall take care of your mother and sisters," Mr. Byrne went on.
"I am not even to be allowed to work for my mother, then?" said Geoffrey.
"At your age it will be as much as you can do to work for yourself," said the old man. "And as yet, you cannot even do that directly. You must go on with your education. I have found a school in the country where you will be well taught, and where you will not be annoyed by not being able to have all that your companions have, as you have so complained about."
"And who is to pay for my schooling?" asked the boy.
"I," replied Mr. Byrne.
"Thank you," said Geoffrey. His tone was not exactly disrespectful, but it was certainly not grateful. "I know I should thank you, but I don't want you to pay schooling or anything else for me. I shall manage for myself. It is much best for me to go away altogether. Even—even if this about our money hadn't happened, I was already making up my mind to it."
Mr. Byrne looked at him.
"Legally speaking, your mother could stop your leaving her," he said.
"She is not likely to do so," replied the boy, "if she is so ill that she cannot even see me."
"Perhaps not," said the old gentleman. "I will send my servant to you at mid-day, to say how your mother is."
"Thank you," said Geoffrey again.
Then Mr. Byrne left the room, and Geoff went off to school.
He was in a strange state of mind. He hardly took in what he had been told of the state of his mother's money matters. He hardly indeed believed it, so possessed was he by the idea that there was a sort of plot to get rid of him.
"It isn't mother herself," he reflected. "It's all Elsa and Frances, and that horrid old Hoot-Toot. But as for going to any schoolhe'dsend me to—no, thank you."
He was standing about at noon with some of his companions, when the coloured servant appeared.
"Please, sir," he said, "I was to tell you that the lady is better—doctor say so;" and with a kind of salaam he waited to see what the young gentleman would reply.
"All right," said Geoff, curtly; and the man turned to go.
Geoff did not see that at the gates he stood still a moment speaking to another man, who appeared to have been waiting for him.
"That young gentleman with the dark hair. You see plain when I speak to him," he said in his rather broken English.
The other man nodded his head.
"I shall know him again, no fear. Tell your master it's all right," he said.
Geoff had to stand some chaff from his friends on the subject of the "darkey," of course. At another time he would rather have enjoyed it than otherwise; but to-day he was unable to take part in any fun.
HE STOOD STILL A MOMENT SPEAKING TO ANOTHER MAN."What a surly humour Tudor's in!" said one of the boys to another.
Geoff overheard it, and glared at him.
"I shan't be missed here either, it seems," he said to himself.
He did not notice that evening, when he went home, that a respectable unobtrusive-looking man, with the air of a servant out of livery, or something of that kind, followed him all the way, only turning back when he had seen the boy safe within his own door. And there, just within, faithful Vicky was awaiting him.
"I've been watching for you such a time, Geoff dear," she said. "Mamma's better.Aren'tyou glad? The doctor's been again, just about an hour ago, and he told me so as he went out."
"Have you seen her?" said Geoff, abruptly.
Vicky hesitated. She knew her answer would vex Geoff, and yet she could not say what was not true.
"I've onlyjustseen her," she said. "Elsa just took me in for a moment. She has to be kept very, very quiet, Geoff. She'll have to be very quiet for a long time."
"You may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "I know what that means—I'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' Oh yes, I quite understand."
He was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation.
"Geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said Vicky. "I wish I hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but I didn't like to say so to Elsa. I know you didn'tmeanever to vex mamma, and I'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? Would you like me just to run and tell Elsa and Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot howdreadfullyyou'd like to see her just for a minute? If you just peeped in, you know, and said 'Good night, mamma; I am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. Shall I, Geoff?"
"No," he replied gruffly. "I want to ask nothing. And I'm not sure that Idowant dreadfully to see her. Caring can't be all on one side."
Vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time.
"Oh, Geoff!" was all she could say. "Mamma not care for you!"
Her distress softened him a little.
"Don'tyoucry about it, Vic," he said. "I do believeyoucare for me, anyway. You always will, won't you, Vicky?"
"Of course I shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into Geoff's teacup. They were in the school-room by this time, and Vicky was at her usual post.
"And some day," pursued Geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, Vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and——"
"Cream," suggested Vicky, her eyes gleaming with delight at the tempting prospect; "strawberries are nothing without cream."
"Of course," Geoff went on. "I was going to say cream, when you interrupted me. We'd have a cream-cow, Vicky."
"A cream-cow," Vicky repeated. "What's that?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly. But one often reads of a milk-cow, so I supposed there must be some cows that are all for cream, if some are for milk. I'll find out all about it when——" But he stopped short. "Never mind, Vicky. When I have a little farm of my own, in the country, I promise you I'll send for you to come and live with me."
"But you'll invite mamma and Elsa, and Francie too, Geoff; I wouldn't care to come without them," objected Vicky.
"Mamma; oh yes, if she likes to come. Perhaps Elsa and Frances will be married, and have houses of their own by then. I'm sure I hope so."
He had talked himself and Vicky into quite good spirits by this time. He was almost forgetting about his plan of running away. But it was soon recalled to him. Elsa put her head in at the door.
"Vicky," she said, "you may come up to see mamma for a few minutes. Come now, quick, before Geoff comes home, or else he will begin about it again, and he justmustnot see her for some days. Mamma sees that he must not."
Geoff's face grew dark.
"Elsa," Vicky called out appealingly. But Elsa had already disappeared.
And then Geoffreyquitemade up his mind.
H
e was a sensible, practical enough boy in some ways. He thought it all well over that night, and made what preparations he could. He packed up the clothes he thought the most necessary and useful in an old carpet-bag he found in the box-room, and then he looked over his drawers and cupboards to see that all was left in order, and he put together some things to be sent to him in case he found it well to write for them.
Then he looked at his purse. He had, carefully stowed away, thirty shillings in gold, and of his regular pocket-money a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a threepenny bit, and some coppers. It was enough to take him some hours' distance out of London, where he would be quite as likely to find what he wanted, employment at some farmhouse, as farther away.
He did not sleep much that night. He was so anxious to be off early that he kept waking up every hour or two. At last, after striking a match to see what o'clock it was for perhaps the twentieth time, his watch told him it was past six. He got up and dressed, then he shouldered his bag, and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. He could not resist lingering a moment outside his mother's door; it was slightly ajar, and there was a faint light within. Elsa's voice came to him as he stood there.
"I amsoglad you are better this morning, dear mamma," she was saying. "I hoped you would be when I went to bed, at three o'clock. You were sleeping so peacefully. I am sure you will be quite well again soon, if we can manage to keep you quiet, and if you won't worry yourself. Everything is quite right."
Geoff's face hardened again.
"I know what all that means," he thought. "Yes, indeed, everything is so right that I,I, have to run away like a thief, because I am too miserable to bear it any more."
And he lingered no longer.
He made his way out of the house without difficulty. It was getting light after a fashion by this time, though it was quite half an hour earlier than he usually started for school. He felt chilly—chillier than he had ever felt before, though it was not a very cold morning. But going out breakfastless does not tend to make one feel warm, and of this sort of thing Geoff had but scant experience. His bag, too, felt very heavy; he glanced up and down the street with a vague idea that perhaps he would catch sight of some boy who, for a penny or two, would carry it for him to the omnibus; but there was no boy in sight. No one at all, indeed, except a young man, who crossed the street from the opposite side while Geoff was looking about him, and walked on slowly a little in front. He was a very respectable-looking young man, far too much so to ask him to carry the bag, yet as Geoff overtook him—for, heavy though it was, the boy felt he must walk quickly to get off as fast as possible—the young man glanced up with a good-natured smile.
"Excuse me, sir," he said civilly, "your bag's a bit heavy for you. Let me take hold of it with you, if we're going the same way."
Geoffrey looked at him doubtfully. He was too much of a Londoner to make friends hastily.
"Thank you," he said. "I can manage it. I'm only going to the corner to wait for the omnibus."
"Just precisely what I'm going to do myself," said the other. "I'm quite a stranger hereabouts. I've been staying a day or two with a friend of mine who keeps a livery stable, and I'm off for the day to Shalecray, to see another friend. Can you tell me, sir, maybe, if the omnibus that passes near here takes one to the railway station?"
"Which railway station?" said Geoff, more than half inclined to laugh at the stranger's evident countrifiedness.
"Victoria Station, to be sure. It's the one I come by. Isn't it the big station for all parts?"
"Bless you! no," said Geoff. "There are six or seven as big as it in London. What line is this place on?"
WALKING ALONG BESIDE GEOFF."That's more nor I can say," said the stranger, looking as if he would have scratched his head to help him out of his perplexity if he had had a hand free. But he had not, for he had caught up the bag, and was walking along beside Geoff, and under his arm he carried a very substantial alpaca umbrella. And in the interest of the conversation Geoff had scarcely noticed the way in which the stranger had, as it were, attached himself to him.
"Ah, well! never mind. I'm going to Victoria myself, and when we get there I'll look up your place and find you your train," said Geoff, patronizingly.
He had kept looking at the stranger, and as he did so, his misgivings disappeared.
"He is just a simple country lad," he said to himself. And, indeed, the young man's blue eyes, fresh complexion, and open expression would have reassured any but amostsuspicious person.
"You're very kind, sir," he replied. "You see, London's a big place, and country folk feels half stupid-like in it."
"Yes, of course," said Geoff. "For my part, I often wonder any one that's free to do as they like cares to live in London. You're a great deal better off in the country."
"There's bads and goods everywhere, I take it, sir," said the young man, philosophically.
But by this time they had reached the corner where the omnibus started, and Geoff's attention was directed to hailing the right one. And an omnibus rattling over London stones is not exactly the place for conversation, so no more passed between them till they were dropped within a stone's throw of Victoria Station.
Geoff was beginning to feel very hungry, and almost faint as well as chilly.
"I say," he said to his companion, "you're not in any very desperate hurry to get off, are you? For I'm frightfully hungry. You don't mind waiting while I have some breakfast, do you? I'll look you out your train for that place as soon as I've had some."
"All right, sir," said the stranger. "If it wouldn't be making too free, I'd be pleased to join you. But I suppose you'll be going into the first-class?"
"Oh no," said Geoff. "I don't mind the second-class."
And into the second-class refreshment-room they went. They grew very friendly over hot coffee and a rasher of bacon, and then Geoff laid out threepence on a railway guide, and proceeded to hunt up Shalecray.
"Here you are!" he exclaimed. "And upon my word, that's a good joke. This place—Shalecray—is on the very line I'm going by. I wonder I never noticed it. I came up that way not long ago, from Entlefield."
"Indeed, sir; that's really curious," said the countryman. "And are you going to Entlefield to-day?"
"Well," said Geoff, "I fancy so. I've not quite made up my mind, to tell the truth. I know the country about there. I want to find some—some farmhouse."
"Oh, exactly—I understand," interrupted the young man. "You want somewhere where they'll put you up tidily for a few days—just for a breath of country air."
"Well, no; not exactly," said Geoffrey. "The fact is, I'm looking out for—for some sort of situation about a farm. I'm very fond of country life. I don't care what I do. I'm not a fine gentleman!"
The countryman looked at him with interest.
"I see," he said. "You're tired of town, I take it, sir. But what do your friends say to it, sir? At sixteen, or even seventeen, you have still to ask leave, I suppose?"
"Not always," said Geoff. "I've made no secret of it. I've no father, and—I'm pretty much my own master."
"'I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me,' eh?" quoted the young man, laughing.
"Something like it, I suppose," said Geoff, laughing too, though rather forcedly. For a vision of Vicky, sobbing, perhaps, over her lonely breakfast, would come before him—of Elsa and Frances trying how to break to their mother the news that Geoff had really run away. "They'll soon get over it," he said to himself. "They've got that old curmudgeon to console them, and I don't want to live onhismoney."
"Do you think I can easily find a place of some kind?" he went on, after a pause.
The countryman this time did scratch his head, while he considered.
"How old may you be, sir? Sixteen or seventeen, maybe?" he inquired.
"I'm not so much; I'm only fourteen," said Geoff, rather reluctantly.
"Really! now, who'd 'a' thought it?" said his new friend, admiringly. "You'll be just the man for a country life when you're full-grown. Not afraid of roughing it? Fond of riding, I dare say?"
"Oh yes," said Geoff. "At least, in town of course I haven't had as much of it as I'd like." He had never ridden in his life, except the previous summer, on a peculiarly gentle old pony of Mrs. Colethorne's.
"No, in course not. Well now, sir, if you'd no objection to stopping at Shalecray with me, it strikes me my friend there, Farmer Eames, might likely enough know of something to suit you. He's a very decent fellow—a bit rough-spoken, maybe. But you're used to country ways—you'd not mind that."
"Oh, not a bit!" said Geoff. "I'm much obliged to you for thinking of it. And you say it's possible—that this Farmer Eames may perhaps have a place that I should do for?"
"Nay, sir, I can't say that. It's just a chance. I only said he'd maybe know of something."
"Well, I don't see that it will do any harm to ask him. I'll only take a ticket to Shalecray, then. I can go on farther later in the day if I don't find anything to suit me there. We'd better take the first train—a quarter to nine. We've still twenty minutes or so to wait."
"Yes, there's plenty of time—time for a pipe. You don't object, sir? But, bless me"—and he felt in his pockets one after the other—"if I haven't forgotten my 'bacca! With your leave, sir, I'll run across the street to fetch some. I saw a shop as we came in."
"Very well," said Geoff; "I'll wait here. Don't be too late."
He had no particular fancy for going to buy cheap tobacco in the company of the very rustic-looking stranger. Besides, he thought it safer to remain quiet in a dark corner of the waiting-room.
It was curious that, though the countryman came back with a well-filled tobacco-pouch, he had not left the station! He only disappeared for a minute or two into the telegraph office, and the message he there indited was as follows:—
"Got him all safe. Will report further this evening."
And ten minutes later the two were ensconced in a third-class carriage, with tickets for Shalecray.
Geoff had often travelled second, but rarely third. He did not, truth to tell, particularly like it. Yet he could not have proposed anything else to his companion, unless he had undertaken to pay the difference. And as it was, the breakfast and his own third-class ticket had made a considerable hole in his thirty shillings. He must be careful, for even with all his inexperience he knew it waspossiblehe might have to pay his own way for some little time to come.
"Still, the chances are I shall find what I want very easily," he reflected. "It is evidently not difficult, by what this fellow tells me."
It did not even strike him as in any way a very remarkable coincidence that almost on the doorstep of his own home he should have lighted upon the very person he needed to give him the particular information he was in want of. For in many ways, in spite of his boasted independence, poor Geoff was as innocent and unsuspicious as a baby.