"MAYN'T I SPEAK TO YOU, MAMMA?"
That was the worst of it--the most puzzling part of it, rather, perhaps
we should say--with Geoffrey. He _meant_ to be good. He would not for
worlds have done anything that he distinctly saw to be wrong. He worked
well at his lessons, though to an accompaniment of constant grumbling--at
home, that is to say; grumbling at school is not encouraged. He was
rather a favourite with his companions, for he was a manly and "plucky"
boy, entering heartily into the spirit of all their games and amusements,
and he was thought well of by the masters for his steadiness and
perseverance, though not by any means of naturally studious tastes. The
wrong side of him was all reserved for home, and for his own family.
Yet, only son and fatherless though he was, he had not been "spoilt" in
the ordinary sense of the word. Mrs. Tudor, though gentle, and in some
ways timid, was not a weak or silly woman. She had brought up her
children on certain broad rules of "must," as to which she was as firm
as a rock, and these had succeeded so well with the girls that it was a
complete surprise as well as the greatest of sorrows to her when she
first began to see signs of trouble with her boy. And gradually her
anxiety led her into the fatal mistake of spoiling Geoffrey by making
him of too much consequence. It came to be recognized in the household
that his moods and humours were to be a sort of family barometer, and
that all efforts were to be directed towards the avoidance of storms.
Not that Geoff was passionate or violent. Had he been so, things would
have sooner come to a crisis. He was simply _tiresome_--tiresome to a
degree that can scarcely be understood by those who have not experienced
such tiresomeness for themselves. And as there is no doubt a grain of
the bully somewhere in the nature of every boy--if not of every human
being--what this tiresomeness might have grown into had the Fates, or
something higher than the Fates, not interposed, it would be difficult
to exaggerate.
The cloudy look had not left Geoff's face when he came into the
drawing-room. But, alas! it was nothing new to see him "looking like
that." His mother took no notice of it.
"Well, Geoff?" she said pleasantly. "How have you got on to-day, my
boy?"
He muttered something indistinctly, which sounded like, "Oh, all right;"
then catching sight of Elsa's reproachful face, he seemed to put some
constraint on himself, and, coming forward to his mother, kissed her
affectionately.
"Are you very tired to-night, mamma?" he said. "Must I not speak to
you?"
Mrs. Tudor _was_ very tired, and she knew by old experience what Geoff's
"speaking" meant--an hour or more's unmitigated grumbling, and dragging
forward of every possible grievance, to have each in turn talked over,
and sympathized about, and smoothed down by her patient hand. Such talks
were not without their effect on the boy; much that his mother said
appealed to his good sense and good feeling, though he but seldom gave
her the satisfaction of seeing this directly. But they were very wearing
to _her_, and it was carrying motherly unselfishness too far to undertake
such discussion with Geoff, when she was already worn out with unusual
anxiety.
She smiled, however, brightly enough, in reply to his questions. It
cheered her to see that he could consider her even thus much.
"Of course I can speak to you, Geoff. Have you anything particular to
tell me?"
"Lots of things," said the boy. He drew forward a chair in which to
settle himself comfortably beside his mother, darting an indignant
glance at his sisters as he did so. "Humbugging me as usual about
mamma--anything to keep me away from her," he muttered. But Elsa and
Frances only glanced at each other in despair.
"Well," said Mrs. Tudor, resignedly, leaning back in her chair.
"Mamma," began Geoffrey, "there must be something done about my
pocket-money. I just can't do with what I've got. I've waited to speak
about it till I had talked it over with some of the other fellows. They
nearly all have more than I."
"Boys of your age--surely not?" interposed Mrs. Tudor.
[Illustration: "THERE MUST BE SOMETHING DONE ABOUT MY POCKET-MONEY."]
"Well, _some_ of them are not older than I," allowed Geoff. "If you'd
give me more, and let me manage things for myself--football boots,
and cricket-shoes, and that sort of thing. The girls"--with cutting
emphasis--"are always hinting that I ask you for too many things, and
_I_ hate to be seeming to be always at you for something. If you'd give
me a regular allowance, now, and let me manage for myself."
"At your age," repeated his mother, "that surely is very unusual."
"I don't see that it matters exactly about age," said Geoff, "if one's
got sense."
"But have you got sense enough, Geoff?" said Frances, gently. "I'm three
years older than you, and I've only just begun to have an allowance for
my clothes, and I should have got into a dreadful mess if it hadn't been
for Elsa helping me."
"Girls are quite different," said Geoff. "They want all sorts of
rubbishing ribbons and crinolines and flounces. Boys only need regular
necessary things."
"Then you haven't any wants at present, I should think, Geoff," said
Elsa, in her peculiarly clear, rather aggravating tones. "You were
completely rigged out when you came back from the country, three weeks
ago."
Geoff glowered at her.
"Mamma," he said, "will you once for all make Elsa and Frances
understand that when I'm speaking to you they needn't interfere?"
Mrs. Tudor did not directly respond to this request.
"Will you tell me, Geoff," she said, "what has put all this into your
head? What things are you in want of?"
Geoff hesitated. Fancied wants, like fancied grievances, have an
annoying trick of refusing to answer to the roll-call when distinctly
summoned to do so.
"There's lots of things," he began. "I _should_ have a pair of proper
football boots, instead of just an old common pair with ribs stuck on,
you know, like I have. All the fellows have proper ones when they're
fifteen or so."
"But you are not fifteen."
"Well, I might wait about the _boots_ till next term. But I do really
want a pair of boxing-gloves dreadfully," he went on energetically, as
the idea occurred to him; "you know I began boxing this term."
"And don't they provide boxing-gloves? How have you managed hitherto?"
asked his mother, in surprise.
"Oh, well, yes--there _are_ gloves; but of course it's much nicer to
have them of one's own. It's horrid always to seem just one of the lot
that can't afford things of their own."
"And if you are _not_ rich--and I dare say nearly all your schoolfellows
are richer than you"--said Elsa, "is it not much better not to sham that
you are?"
"Sham," repeated Geoff, roughly. "Mamma, I do think you should speak
to Elsa.--If you were a boy----" he added, turning to his sister
threateningly. "I don't want to sham about anything; but it's very hard
to be sent to a school when you can't have everything the same as the
others."
A look of pain crept over Mrs. Tudor's tired face. Had she done wrong?
Was it another of her "mistakes"--of which, like all candid people, she
felt she had made many in her life--to have sent Geoff to a first-class
school?
"Geoff," she said weariedly, "you surely do not realize what you cause
me when you speak so. It was almost my principal reason for settling in
London seven years ago, that I might be able to send you to one of the
best schools. We could have lived more cheaply, and more comfortably,
in the country; but you would have had to go to a different class of
school."
"Well, I wish I had, then," said Geoff, querulously. "I perfectly hate
London; I have always told you so. I shouldn't mind what I did if it
was in the country. It isn't that I want to spend money, or that I've
extravagant ideas; but it's too hard to be in a false position, as I am
at school--not able to have things like the other fellows. You would
have made _me_ far happier if you had gone to live in the country and
let me go to a country school. I _hate_ London; and just because I want
things like other fellows, I'm scolded."
Mrs. Tudor did not speak. She looked sad and terribly tired.
"Geoff," said Elsa, putting great control on herself so as to speak very
gently, for she felt as if she could gladly shake him, "you must see
that mamma is very tired. Do wait to talk to her till she is better able
for it. And it is getting late."
"Do go, Geoff," said his mother. "I have listened to what you have said;
it is not likely I shall forget it. I will talk to you afterwards."
The boy looked rather ashamed.
"I haven't meant to vex you," he said, as he stooped to kiss his mother.
"I'm sorry you're so tired."
There was silence for a moment after he had left the room.
"I am afraid there is a mixture of truth in what he says," said Mrs.
Tudor, at last. "It has been one of the many mistakes I have made, and
now I suppose I am to be punished for it."
Elsa made a movement of impatience.
"Mamma dear!" she exclaimed, "I don't think you would speak that way if
you weren't tired. There isn't any truth in what Geoff says. I don't
mean that he tells stories; but it's just his incessant grumbling. He
makes himself believe all sorts of nonsense. He has everything right
for a boy of his age to have. I know there are boys whose parents are
really rich who have less than he has."
"Yes, indeed, mamma; Elsa is right," said Frances. "Geoff is insatiable.
He picks out the things boys here and there may have as an exception,
and wants to have them all. He has a perfect genius for grumbling."
"Because he is always thinking of himself," said Elsa. "Mamma, don't
think me disrespectful, but would it not be better to avoid saying
things which make him think himself of such consequence--like telling
him that we came to live in town principally for _his_ sake?"
"Perhaps so," said her mother. "I am always in hopes of making him
ashamed, by showing how much _has_ been done for him."
"And he does feel ashamed," said Frances, eagerly. "I saw it to-night;
he'd have liked to say something more if he hadn't been too proud to own
that he had been inventing grievances."
"Things have been too smooth for him," said Elsa; "that's the truth of
it. He needs some hardships."
"And as things are turning out he's very likely to get them," said Mrs.
Tudor, with a rather wintry smile.
"Oh, mamma, forgive me! Do you know, I had forgotten all about our money
troubles," Elsa exclaimed. "Why don't you tell Geoff about them, mamma?
It's in a way hardly fair on him; for if he knew, it _might_ make him
understand how wrong and selfish he is."
"I will tell him soon, but not just yet. I do not want to distract his
mind from his lessons, and I wish to be quite sure first. I think I
should wait till I hear from your great-uncle."
"And that will be--how long? It is how many weeks since Mr. Norris first
wrote that he was uneasy? About seven, I should say," said Elsa.
"Quite that," said her mother. "It is the waiting that is so trying. I
can do nothing without Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot's advice."
That last sentence had been a familiar one to Mrs. Tudor's children
almost ever since they could remember. "Great-Uncle Hoot-Toot" had been
a sort of autocrat and benefactor in one, to the family. His opinions,
his advice had been asked on all matters of importance; his approval
had been held out to them as the highest reward, his displeasure as the
punishment most to be dreaded. And yet they had never seen him!
"I wish he would come home himself," said Elsa. "I think Geoff would be
much the better for a visit from him," she added, with a slight touch of
sharpness in her tone.
"Poor Geoff!" said her mother. "I suppose the truth is that very few
women know how to manage boys."
"I don't see that," said Elsie. "On the contrary, a generous-natured
boy is often more influenced by a woman's gentleness than by a man's
severity. It is just that, that I don't like about Geoff. There is a
want of generous, chivalrous feeling about him."
"No," said Frances. "I don't quite agree with you. I think it is
there, but somehow not awakened. Mamma," she went on, "supposing our
great-uncle did come home, would he be dreadfully angry if he found out
that we all called him 'Hoot-Toot'?"
"Oh no," said her mother, smiling; "he's quite used to it. Your father
told me he had had the trick nearly all his life of saying 'Hoot-toot,
hoot-toot!' if ever he was perplexed or disapproving."
"What a _very_ funny little boy he must have been!" exclaimed both the
girls together.
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