A LETTER AT LAST

Christmas had come and gone. It brought Geoff’s home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. He had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of December with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a Christmas card. And for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter-was he sure there was no letter for James Jeffreys? But the postman only shook his head. He had “never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without ‘care of Mr. Eames,’” as Geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer’s name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. And when not only Christmas, but New Year’s Day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope.

“It is too bad,” he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. “I think they might think a little of me. They might be sorry for me, even-even if I did worry them all when I was at home. They might guess how lonely I am. It isn’t the hard work. If it was for mother I was working, and if I knew they were all pleased with me, I wouldn’t mind it. But I can’t bear to go on like this.”

Yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for Mr. Byrne’s charity. And every feeling of independence and manliness in Geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. Still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. “Work on a farm” had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. He could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. And gradually another idea took shape in his mind-he would emigrate! He saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months.

“And then,” thought Geoff, “I might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things I have at home I might get the rest of the money. Or-I would not even mind taking it as a loan from Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot. That would seem different; and of course I do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only I were a man that would be my business.”

And for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. His old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. But these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he could not bear it any longer. And he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened.

It was about six weeks after the Sunday on which he had thought he had overheard Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot’s voice through the hedge. It was a Sunday again. Geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the Hall, when a sudden exclamation from Mrs. Eames made him look up. The farmer’s wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser.

As she did so, a letter fell forward. It was addressed in a clear, good hand to

“JAMES JEFFREYS,
AT MR. EAMES’S,
CRICKWOOD FARM,
SHALECRAY.”

“Bless me!” cried the good woman. “What’s this a-doing here? Jem, boy, ’tis thine. When can it have come? It may have been up there a good bit.”

Geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand.

“Give it me! oh, give it me, please!” he said, in an eager, trembling voice. A look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. For it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, “I forward enclosed, as agreed.-Ned Jowett.” And the second envelope was addressed to “Mr. James” in a round, childish hand, that Geoff knew well. It was Vicky’s.

He darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. He could not have read the letter before any one. Already the tears were welling up into his eyes. And long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. This was what Vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old!

“MY DARLING GEOFF,

“Why haven’t you written to us? I wrote you a letter the minute I got your little note with the address, and I have written to you again since then. Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot says you are sure to get this letter. I think you can’t have got the others. But still you might have written. I have been so very unhappy about you. Of course I was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still I have been VERY unhappy. Mamma got better very slowly. I don’t think she would have got better if she hadn’t heard that you were getting on well, though. She has been very unhappy, too, and so have Elsa and Frances, but poor Vicky most of all. We do so want you at home again. Geoff, I can’t tell you how good old Uncle Hoot-Toot is. There is something about money I can’t explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn’t. Oh, Geoff, darling, do come home. We do all love you so, and mamma and Elsa were only troubled because you didn’t seem happy, and you didn’t believe that they loved you. I think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. I keep your room so nice. I dust it myself every day. Mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then I have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can’t eat so much at ladies’ afternoon tea. But I was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. I have wrapped up our teapot, after Harvey had made it very bright, and I won’t ever make tea out of it till you come home. Oh, Geoffy, darling, do come home!

“Your loving, unhappy little
“VICKY.”

The tears came faster and faster-so fast that it was with difficulty Geoff could see to read the last few lines. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. He was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. And with these sobs and tears-good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of-there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. He saw himself as he had really been-selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “that was all I really had to complain of. They considered me too much-they spoilt me. But, oh, I would be so different now! Only-I can’t go home and say to Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot, ‘I’ve had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.’ It would seem too mean. No, I must keep to my plan-it’s too late to change. But I think I might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. In three weeks I shall have been here three months, and then I may ask for a holiday. I’ll write to Vicky now at once, and tell her so-I can post the letter when I go to the station. They must have thought me so horrid for not having written before. I wonder how it was I never got the other letters? But it doesn’t matter now I’ve got this one. Oh, dear Vicky, I think I shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!”

He had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. And once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing-indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. This was his letter:-

“Crickwood Farm, February 2.

“MY DEAREST VICKY,

“I have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the 15th of January. Mrs. Eames-that’s the farmer’s wife-found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. I never got your other letters; I can’t think what became of them. I’ve asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. Vicky, I can’t tell you all I’d like to say. I thought I’d write to mamma, but I feel as if I couldn’t. Will you tell her that I just beg her to forgive me? Not only for leaving home without leave, like I did, but for all the way I went on and all the worry I gave her. I see it all quite plain. I’ve been getting to see it for a good while, and when I read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. I don’t mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home-I wouldn’t mind anything if I thought I was doing right. But it’s the loneliness. Vicky, I have thought sometimes I’d go out of my mind. Will you ask Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot to forgive me, too? I’d like to understand about all he has done for us, and I think I am much sensibler about money than I was, so perhaps he’ll tell me. I can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then I’ll come home for one day. I shall have to tell you my plans, and I think mamma will think I’m right. I must work hard, and perhaps in a few years I shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. For I’ve made up my mind to emigrate. I don’t think I’d ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it’s very hard work here, I don’t mind it, and I love animals, and in the summer it won’t be so bad. Please, Vicky, make everybody understand that I hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.-Your very loving

“GEOFF.

“P.S.-You may write here now. I don’t mind you all knowing where
I am.”

By the time Geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. He had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. He was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the Shalecray mail. The man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked.

“By Tuesday,” thought Geoff, “I may have a letter if Vicky writes at once. And I might write again next Sunday. So that we’d hear of each other every week.”

And this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a Sunday evening, Eames was sitting smoking beside the fire.

“The missis has told me about your letter, Jim,” said the farmer. “I’m right-down sorry about it, but I don’t rightly know who to blame. It’s just got slipped out o’ sight.”

“Thank you,” Geoff replied. “I’m awfully glad to have it now.”

“He’s never looked so bright since he came,” said Mr. Eames to his wife when Geoff had left the room. “He’s about getting tired of it, I fancy; and the squire’s only too ready to forgive and forget, I take it. But he’s a deal o’ good stuff in him, has the boy, and so I told the squire. He’s a fine spirit of his own, too.”

“And as civil a lad as ever I seed,” added Mrs. Eames. “No nonsense and no airs. One can tell as he’s a real gentleman. All the same, I’ll be uncommon glad when he’s with his own folk again; no one’d believe the weight it’s been on my mind to see as he didn’t fall ill with us. And you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn’t to be coddled and cosseted. Yet you’d have been none so pleased if he’d got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if I hadn’t myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind’s been almost more nor I could bear.”

“Well, well,” said the farmer, soothingly, “all’s well as ends well. And you said yourself it’d never ‘a’ done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us.”