Part 8 (1/2)

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 splas.h.i.+ng 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 bl.u.s.tering 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 d.i.c.k and I used to get a gla.s.s 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 d.i.c.k 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 appet.i.te; 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?”