GEOFF “WON’T STAND IT

Geoff 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. Mamma has cared 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 really heartless?” 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 not I preventing 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-

“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 school he’d send 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.

“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’t you 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 only just seen 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’t mean ever 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 how dreadfully you’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 I do want 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’t you cry about it, Vic,” he said. “I do believe you care 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 just must not 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 Geoffrey quite made up his mind.