On the Bridge
THE Wreyford Grammar School stood in the main street of the town.
It was a substantial grey stone building, with a large playground
at the back, which, on a certain April morning, presented a decidedly
uproarious scene, some sixty boys of all sizes and ages being
assembled there, talking, shouting, and laughing at the top of their
voices. Some of the boys were boarders, but the majority was
comprised of day pupils, who represented not only the leading
families of the town, but the small traders and farmers of the
surrounding districts as well, for the Wreyford Grammar School was
open to all whose parents could pay the very moderate fees demanded.
The boys had just been dismissed for the Easter holidays; and
presently a door in the wall leading into a lane at the back of Fore
Street was opened, and they began gradually to disperse through that
exit. Almost the first to leave was Gilbert Mickle: No one attempted
to speak to him as he passed through the crowd of boys except his
brother, who was talking to a group composed of his boon companions,
and shouted to him to ask if he was going home already.
"Yes," answered Gilbert sourly; "I don't want to remain here in this
hubbub."
"All right!" was the cheerful response. "Don't wait for me; I'm not
coming yet."
Gilbert turned away, conscious that Tom's friends were whispering
about him; he did not suppose their remarks were very flattering, and
a dull angry flush rose to his face, whilst the ill-tempered lines
between his brows deepened as he hurried between the knots of boys,
and at last found himself in the lane. He moved more slowly then, and
reflected bitterly on the scene he had left. Not one of his
school-fellows had so much as wished him enjoyable holidays, he was
thinking, when the sound of quick footsteps behind him made him
glance around.
"I say, Mickle," said a hearty, jovial voice, "I'm awfully glad
you've won the form-prize as I haven't. I thought all along
you would, although I tried hard to get it myself. But I was fairly
beaten. I'd rather be licked by you than any of the other fellows."
Gilbert looked at the speaker—Richard Higgs, the son of a bookseller
and stationer in Wreyford, and his chief rival at school—and made
no reply. Higgs was a tall, wiry youth with a crop of orange-coloured
hair surmounting a round, freckled face, out of which a pair
of honest green eyes smiled good-naturedly at his school-fellow.
"I hope you'll have a jolly fine time these holidays," he proceeded;
"I mean to."
"Thank you," Gilbert responded, speaking more graciously than usual;
"it's awfully good of you to speak so—so generously about the
form-prize, for I know you worked very hard to win it."
At that moment several other boys overtook them; and, with a nod
to Higgs, Gilbert turned away and proceeded alone. Presently he came
to the end of the lane, and passed through a narrow opening between
two houses into the main street. He had intended going straight home;
but reflecting that there was still an hour before dinner-time,
he took the opposite direction, and had soon left the town and
reached the old stone bridge which crossed the Wrey.
It was a beautiful day; the river sparkled like silver in the
sunshine, whilst the meadows stretching on either side of the water
were yellow with cowslips. Gilbert leaned over the bridge, and gazed
into the shadows beneath, watching the small fish which darted hither
and thither as though at play. A red-breasted stickleback aroused his
interest by turning viciously upon its companions every now and then
with wide open mouth, making them flee out of its way at a great
rate, as though for their lives. Approaching footsteps caused him
to glance up presently, when he saw the figure of a man coming
towards him slowly, from the direction of the town—a stranger; he was
clad in a thick overcoat although the weather was warm. When he
reached the bridge he sat down on one of its low stone walls as if
glad to rest awhile, and then Gilbert noticed he looked as though
he had been ill, and knew he must be Mr. Willis. The lame boy
had never seen the artist before, although Haresdown House had now
been inhabited three weeks, and Tom had been there several times,
having set up a friendship with Gerald Willis, who had been
introduced to him, in the town one day, by Mr. Bailey. Mr. and Mrs.
Mickle had called on the newcomers, and Dinah and Dora had renewed
their acquaintance with Angel; but hitherto Gilbert had avoided
Haresdown House and its inmates; he hated strangers, and would have
certainly moved quickly away on this occasion if his curiosity had
not prompted him to linger.
He glanced at Mr. Willis furtively from under his sullen brows for a
few seconds, and saw that the artist looked much younger than he had
pictured him; then, seizing his crutches, prepared to move.
"I hope I have not disturbed you," said Mr. Willis, smiling; "you are
Gilbert Mickle, are you not?"
"Yes," the boy answered shortly.
"Then I think you and I ought to know each other," Mr. Willis
remarked cordially, holding out his hand; "I believe I have met all
the other members of your family. My name is John Willis."
"I thought so," Gilbert exclaimed. He could not refuse to grasp the
extended hand, though his one idea was to get away as soon as
possible. "I hope you are better?" he inquired awkwardly.
"Oh, much better, thank you. Are you in a hurry? Will you not sit
down and talk to me for a bit?"
"Well—if you like."
It was scarcely a gracious answer. Gilbert seated himself a few steps
away from his companion, and rested his crutches by his side;
his self-consciousness made him nervous, so that he clumsily allowed
one crutch to slip, and crimsoned with vexation as he stooped to pick
it up.
"I can't go far without my props," he said, with the bitter
intonation in his voice which it always pained his mother to hear.
"So I understand," Mr. Willis replied in matter-of-fact tones. Being
a tactful man and a keen judge of character, he deemed it best not to
enlarge upon the other's lameness, or show the sympathy he felt;
but calmly changed the conversation by saying, "I have now come from
the town, and whilst I was making a few purchases from Mr. Higgs,
the stationer, asked him some questions about the Grammar School—
I mean, my boy to go there after Easter—and he told me you and his
son have been rivals this term."
"Yes. Higgs and I both wanted to win the form-prize."
"And you won it, I understand! I congratulate you."
"Thank you. I thought Higgs would be mad—I know I should have been
in his place—but he wasn't a bit. He spoke to me about it after the
school had broken up this morning; said he'd rather be licked by me
than by any of the other fellows, and I really believe he meant what
he said."
"He has evidently learnt how to take a defeat in the proper spirit.
I suppose you are very elated at being the victor?"
"No, I don't think I am. Mother and father are pleased, but I'm not
so glad as I thought I should be."
The boy spoke in a depressed tone, as though he took a jaundiced view
of things in general.
"Your mother was telling me the other day that you are fond of
drawing and painting," Mr. Willis said, after a lengthened pause,
during which he had been debating what subject would be likely
to interest his young companion.
Gilbert's face brightened as he admitted the truth of his mother's
statement.
"I haven't touched a brush for nearly two months myself," Mr. Willis
continued, with a faint sigh; "my illness has been a great drawback,
but now I am so much better and stronger, I shall soon be at work
again: I have chosen a pleasant room at Haresdown House for a studio.
You must come and see it."
"I should like to." Gilbert looked greatly pleased. He had heard
of the artist's disappointment at not being able to finish his
picture in time for exhibition at the Royal Academy that year, and
longed to question him about it. "Your little girl told us about the
beautiful picture you have been painting," he proceeded hesitatingly.
"Did you—did you bring it with you?"
"Yes," Mr. Willis answered. His face saddened for a moment, then
brightened again.
"Yes," he repeated more briskly, "I brought it with me—we have no
home in London now—and one day I hope to finish it. So Angel told you
about it, did she? What did she say? But, there, I won't ask, for I
know my little maid has an exalted idea of her father's abilities.
Poor child, she has always kept her faith in me. Would you like
to see my picture?"
"Oh, indeed I should!" Gilbert cried, a flush of delight rising
to his sallow face at the thought.
"Then, you shall; but not to-day. I don't think I shall feel up to
much this afternoon. How about to-morrow?"
"I could come then—any time."
"In the afternoon? We shall all be glad to see you."
"Thank you, so much. I will be at Haresdown House about three
o'clock. Are you going to walk home?" Gilbert inquired, for his
companion looked pale and tired, he thought.
"Oh no! I am going to wait here until my uncle joins me. He has set
up a pony-carriage, you know, and will arrive from the town to drive
me home. I can't face that hill yet."
"I should think not."
"But I hope to do so very soon. What a pretty place Wreyford is!
This bridge is very old, I imagine?"
"Yes; it is one of the old county bridges. Have you seen the church?"
"Only from the distance; I have not been there yet—perhaps I may
next Sunday. It is a grand old building, my uncle tells me, and my
little girl is simply charmed with the view from the churchyard."
"It is beautiful!" the boy cried. "You can see for miles and miles
around from Haresdown Hill—the church is right at the top, you know.
And the town looks so pretty in the valley, and the river—" He broke
off abruptly, as though rather ashamed of his enthusiasm; and then
added briefly, "But you'll see for yourself."
The artist nodded. He had taken a large size notebook from the side
pocket of his overcoat, and was glancing through the pages of it.
"I am going to show you a sketch I made a few days ago," he said,
smiling. "I wonder if you will be able to recognize the original!"
And he handed the book open to Gilbert.
"Oh, I say, how awfully clever of you!" the boy exclaimed. "Oh, what
a capital likeness!" With a few strokes of his pencil Mr. Willis had
succeeded in depicting Miss Goodwin's little figure in her old
fashioned cloak and poke bonnet, with her waterproof over her arm.
"I am glad you see whom it is intended to represent," Mr. Willis
said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "She was our first caller.
I made that sketch of her from memory; of course it is a caricature,
but not an unkindly one, I hope. She is a dear old soul!"
"Oh yes," Gilbert agreed. "Every one likes Miss Goodwin. This is a
very good likeness of her, Mr. Willis—goloshes and all!"
It was wonderful how much better looking the boy's face appeared when
he laughed, as he did at that moment. Mr. Willis told him he might
look at the other sketches in the book if he liked, and as he turned
over the pages, explained their contents to him.
"I wish I could draw like this," Gilbert said earnestly, as he
at last closed the book and returned it to its owner. "I should so
much like to be an artist; but father wants me to be a lawyer
like himself, and—"
He broke off in the midst of the sentence as the sound of wheels
was heard, and a pony-carriage driven by Mr. Bailey, drawn by a
strong Exmoor pony, appeared in sight from the direction of the
town.
"We will continue our conversation to-morrow afternoon," said Mr.
Willis pleasantly, as his uncle drove up, and brought the pony to a
standstill. "I am afraid I have kept you waiting a long time, John,"
Mr. Bailey observed apologetically. "I was unexpectedly delayed at
several places—How do you do, my lad?" he said, holding out his hand
to Gilbert, who reached for his crutches and came forward to shake
hands with him.
"I'm quite well, thank you," the boy answered. "What a nice little
carriage! And, oh, I say, what a jolly little pony!"
"Yes," Mr. Bailey nodded complacently as his nephew took the seat
by his side; "it's a trim turn-out altogether, isn't it? The pony
is a rare one to travel, and such a strong, sure-footed little beast.
Pixy, he's called. Why haven't you been to see us yet, eh?"
"He is coming to-morrow afternoon," Mr. Willis answered quickly;
"I have been arranging it with him."
"That's right! That's right!"
Mr. Bailey gathered up the reins, and Pixy started off at a swift
pace. Mr. Willis looked back and waved his hand to Gilbert, who,
leaning on his crutches, stood gazing after the pony-carriage.
"That's a cross-grained boy, if I'm not much mistaken," the artist
remarked shrewdly, "and a very unhappy one too. He is very different
to the other Mickle children—perhaps his affliction has soured him."
"Perhaps so," Mr. Bailey agreed, "but I thought he looked bright
enough to-day."
Meanwhile Gilbert had glanced at his watch, and had discovered that
it was half-past one o'clock, which was his dinner-time. How the last
hour had simply flown! What an interesting companion the artist was.
And what good spirits he appeared to be in, considering his recent
severe illness, and the disappointment which had attended it. Gilbert
felt sure, under similar circumstances, he himself would be in a most
depressed condition.
He turned towards the town, still thinking of Mr. Willis. He was glad
he had met him, for now he had made his acquaintance he would not
mind seeing him again, and although he had really desired to know
him, he had dreaded the first interview. As a rule strangers were
greatly struck by the boy's lameness, and if they did not remark
on it in words, generally showed their sympathy for his affliction
in their faces, which only annoyed him, for he strongly resented pity
in any form. Certainly Gilbert Mickle's character was a strange one.
On his return home he found his family already seated at the dinner
table, and his father, who liked punctuality, reproved him sharply
for his tardy appearance. Contrary to his custom on such occasions,
Gilbert explained how it was he had been delayed, and told how the
time had flown.
"Old Gilbert's in a rare good temper," whispered Tom to Dinah, for he
was an adept at reading his brother's countenance, "you can see that
by his face; I hope he means to keep in the same humour during the
holidays. I expect he's more pleased at having won his form-prize
than he pretends!"