GILES PROVES HIMSELF A MANLY BOY.
BY some means or other the children knew before breakfast next morning
that Dora would be their teacher as soon as the holidays were over.
But the news did not give the satisfaction she expected.
Olive openly grumbled. "They learnt well enough from mother, why
couldn't they go on in the old way?" she was heard to ask.
And Lottie, for no other reason than because she thought it a clever
thing to echo Olive's words, chimed in with, "Yes, it would be ever so
much nicer to go on doing lessons as they did before."
Dora, though she wisely kept the opinion to herself, thought them both
ungrateful little creatures. But the momentary feeling of annoyance
over, she resolved with characteristic good temper that they should
have as little cause as possible to regret the change, and she drew
comfort from the fact that Giles, whom she half feared would protest
against having her as his governess, made no remark whatever.
It was well for her peace of mind that she did not hear a conversation
which took place between him and his eldest brother as soon as they had
left the table.
In order to be in good time at the warehouse, Edgar often got up from
breakfast before the younger children had finished, and during the
holidays he had frequently been accompanied to the railway station by
either Robert or Giles. This morning the latter asked permission to go
with his brother, and his mother having willingly granted his request,
he followed Edgar out of the room and into the hall.
There Giles burst forth with—
"I want to know if I can't go to school. I am sick of doing lessons at
home like a girl."
The last three words were brought out with great contempt.
"I am afraid you must put up with it for a while longer," said Edgar,
quietly. "After another year we shan't have to be so particular about
spending a little money, and then I daresay you'll go with Robert
again."
"It isn't as if it were a dear school. It wouldn't cost much to send
me," went on Giles. "I remember hearing somebody say once it was one of
the few things that were both cheap and good."
"The terms aren't high, because it's purposely for people in our class
of life," rejoined Edgar. "But for all that I know mother can't afford
to let you go back yet."
"Then," said Giles, passionately, "I've a great mind to say I won't
learn of Dora. Why! She's only five years and two months older than I."
"That's a good deal now we're all young," said Edgar, putting on the
coat and hat he had been brushing, "Though I don't suppose we shall
find it much when we grow up. Now come along, if you are going to the
station; I don't want to miss my usual train."
Then as they walked along, he tried to change the conversation to a
more cheerful subject. But Giles was feeling very sore this morning,
and he would not be taken from his grievance.
"All I can say," he continued, ignoring his brother's kind efforts, "is
that I shan't try to do my lessons for Dora. When I'm sent to school
again I'll work as well as anybody."
Edgar had not before realised that any additional responsibility would
fall on him in consequence of his father's absence. Now he saw it was
his duty to take his father's place to the utmost of his power, and
talk to Giles as he would have talked had he been there. A new light
was suddenly thrown on the words that had been said to him, as to the
eldest son, on their father's last evening at home.
"That spirit will never do, Giles," he remarked.
"I don't care," grumbled Giles. "I'm over ten, and I think it's a great
shame to be treated like a baby."
"I don't know about being treated like a baby. I know you are behaving
like one."
Edgar spoke very gently. There was no contempt in his voice, and no
anger; only a kind and fond interest was expressed. Perhaps for this
reason Giles blushed and looked ashamed. Nevertheless, he put on an air
of indifference.
"I don't see how that can be," he said. "Any boy of spirit would
object to being taught with two sisters younger than himself, and by a
sister," Giles laid great stress on the by,—"a very little older."
Edgar could have laughed outright, but he restrained himself.
"I don't know your idea of a boy of spirit, but I know what your
Sunday-school teacher and mother would think the best kind of spirit to
have," he said.
"What?" asked Giles.
For a moment Edgar hesitated. He was naturally reserved and it was not
easy for him to speak openly of sacred subjects at any time. To do so
now was still harder. Giles might think he was preaching, and that was
what he abhorred.
"The spirit of Christ," he replied, and though he spoke with much
difficulty the words were uttered slowly and reverently. "That is the
best and most truly manly spirit we can any of us have. You know what
it would have you do?"
Giles shook his head. But the answer that his heart made was: "Learn of
Dora and try to make good progress."
"The spirit of Christ," said Edgar in the same low voice, "would have
you willing to learn of your sister, and anxious to do her credit as
her pupil. He did not seek to please Himself, you know, and neither
must we. Then by putting aside your own wishes and saying nothing about
them, you will be fulfilling your part of the trust father left us."
"I don't see how," said Giles briefly, but without any sullenness or
complaint in his voice.
"I don't think there's any need for me to tell you mother is not at all
strong, and attending to the house and teaching so much as she did all
last year has tried her greatly. Now Dora is not only willing, but very
eager to take the work from her. But if you grumble and make a fuss and
give Dora trouble, then mother will feel obliged to teach you again
herself, and besides that, she will be so grieved that she cannot send
you to school. It bothers her now. She was talking about it only last
night. 'If I could anyhow spare another sovereign, he should go,' she
said, and there were tears in her eyes as she spoke. Giles, old fellow,
you won't add to her troubles, will you?"
Giles' face was turned away, and his brother had to wait for an answer.
When it did come, the "No" was spoken in so choked a voice that Edgar
only just caught the sound.
"I knew you wouldn't," he said, as he put his hand on Giles' shoulder.
"I knew you'd take your share in bearing the family burden like a
brave, manly boy. It's not an easy burden. At times I feel as if I
couldn't bear my part of it."
As Giles looked up wonderingly and with misty eyes, some inexplicable
and most unusual impulse prompted Edgar to speak still more freely of
himself.
"My part has been to give up my desire of becoming a doctor," he said.
"I didn't know you ever wanted to be one," exclaimed Giles in
astonishment.
"Only mother and father know. You are in the secret now, but you'll
keep it to yourself, won't you?"
A thrill of pride, not unmixed with gratitude to Edgar for having
confided in him, shot through Giles' heart. Yes; he would be as true as
steel to his brother.
"I won't tell. You may depend upon that," he said.
"Well, I've had to give up my idea of being a doctor, and go to the
warehouse instead."
"And you don't like it?"
"No. I hate it."
Giles was silent. He felt very sorry for his brother, and ashamed
too of his complaints of a little while ago. He felt, more than he
understood, that his trouble was small in comparison with that of which
he had just heard.
"I am so sorry," he said, and he slipped his hand into Edgar's. "Isn't
there any hope that you may be a doctor yet?"
"I don't think so. In the present day, one can't be a doctor without
having had a good education and passed lots of exams., and I had to
leave school before I was fifteen. Even if we should be better off in a
year or two, there will certainly be no money to spare."
"Perhaps something will turn up," said Giles, hardly knowing what he
meant by the frequently-heard expression, but hoping the words would
show his sympathy and give comfort.
"You're a downright good fellow to talk to," said Edgar, greatly
touched by the manner in which Giles had received his confidence, and
accompanying the words with an affectionate squeeze of the little hand
that was clasped in his own. "But," he continued, "I'm afraid there
isn't a shadow of hope for me. I shouldn't have said, though, that I
hated my work at the warehouse. I do try to like it, and perhaps, after
a while, I may find pleasure in it. Of course, I am very glad to be
able to do something towards adding to the general fund. I wouldn't be
a clog on mother and father for ever so. I'd a thousand times rather
have it as it is."
At this the conversation abruptly ended, for at that moment they
entered the booking-office, and the puffing and noise of a train
drawing up in the station below warned Edgar that if he would catch it,
he had not a moment to lose. He had only time for a look and a hurried
good-bye, as he rushed down the long flight of steps, leaving Giles to
go home alone.
But it was a very different Giles from the one who had left the
breakfast-table. For the first time he began to see some of the true
meaning of life. Christ had not pleased Himself, neither must he; and
it made him glad to know that he, child as he was, could take his
part in bearing the family trouble. The thought caused him to be very
strong, and brave, and manly.
"No, I won't grumble," he said to himself. "I'll just try to do my best
for Dora, and mother shan't ever know how much I hate doing lessons at
home, and how badly I want to go to school. And what's more," and Giles
drew himself up with conscious dignity, "I won't got cross and angry
when I meet Tom Rilston and some of the other boys who used to be in my
form, and they ask me how I like being taught at home by my 'mammy.'"
He began to put his good resolutions into practice at once. On reaching
home he went straight to the sitting room where Dora was reading with
Phil upon her knee. She and the baby were alone, and going up to her,
Giles said simply,—
"I'm glad you arn't going to let mother teach us any longer. I'll do
my best to get on nicely, and perhaps I can help a bit with Lottie's
lessons. Mother often used to ask me to set her some sums to work."
Dora was feeling both disappointed and downhearted that Olive and
Lottie should have expressed so much dissatisfaction with the new
arrangement, and these unexpected words greatly comforted her.
"Thank you, Giles," she said, and, in spite of her endeavours to force
them back, the tears would come into her eyes. "I hope to make your
lessons easy and interesting to you. I shall try to do so at any rate,
and we must be patient with each other, mustn't we?"
This was not quite what Giles had looked for. Dora seemed almost to
be pleading for his obedience and attention. He was very sorry he had
had hard thoughts of her that morning, and perhaps he would have told
her of them, and of the better spirit that now influenced him had not
Robert at that moment entered the room.
"It's thawing fast, isn't it, Giles?" he asked.
"Yes, I heard one man say to another that he shouldn't be surprised if
we had rain before night. I suppose there won't be much skating after
all."
"No," said Robert, and a certain troubled look that his face had
worn lately rolled away like a cloud before sunshine. Then almost
immediately he asked, "Will you help me find my school books, Giles? I
haven't begun my holiday task yet, and it's time I set about it."
Giles would rather have done anything than this, for while searching
for the books—Robert never knew where to find his possessions—he should
be thinking of the school he had liked so much, and from which he had
been so unexpectedly removed. Without a word, however, he began to hunt
for the missing volumes, and in a little while Robert, with pencil and
paper in hand, was hard at work upon a simple equation in algebra.
As Giles glanced up from his story-book, and saw his brother at the
table, an idea, "just a lovely one," as Dora frequently said of her own
thoughts, came into his mind.
Why should he not do at home what he would have been doing had he been
at school? He had just begun Latin when he had been taken away; he had,
in fact, mastered the first three declensions. Now, with a feeling of
shame, Giles found himself unable to decline the singular of "Mensa."
Well, he would begin again. Edgar would help him, he knew, and he
would work hard at all his studies, so that when he went to school
again, he might be placed in a higher form than that in which he had
been when he left. Yes, that was what he would do, and perhaps Robert
would teach him algebra. He would puzzle it out as much as possible for
himself, so that it would only be a little help he should need. And
here Giles, practical little Giles, did an unheard-of thing. He dreamed
a day-dream, which for brilliancy of colouring and impossibility of
attainment rivalled those of Dora herself.
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