Читать книгу: «Great Uncle Hoot-Toot», страница 3

CHAPTER V.
A CRISIS

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 do that. 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 to her this evening. So we'll go upstairs. Some day, perhaps, I'll tell you some of the experiences of my boyhood. 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 I care about 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 if I want 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 —was it the candle, or was she really so very pale?

"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 most exceedingly quiet, 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 kept perfectly quiet, 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 to me as 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 must not come 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. You have worried 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."

"You allow 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."

"I will see 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.

CHAPTER VI.
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.