One day he rode over to the Warren, pondering upon what Theo had said, that the Warren must be liked best by the babies, because it was their home. Would it ever really be their home? Would Warrender be so hard as that, to take away mamma and the babies for good, and leave a fellow all alone in Markland, because it was Geoff’s and not his own? Geoff’s little gray face was as serious as that of a man of eighty, and almost as full of wrinkles. He thought and thought what he could do to please Warrender. Though his heart rose against this interloper, this destroyer of his home, Geoff was wise, and knew that to keep his mother he must please her husband. What could he do? Not like him—that was impossible. Riding along, now slowly, now quickly, rather at the pony’s will than at his own, Geoff, with loose reins in his hands and a slouch in his shoulders which was the despair of Black, pondered the subject till his little mind was all in confusion. What could he do to please Warrender? He would be good to the babies, by nature, and because he liked the two funny little things, but that would not please Warrender. He would do almost anything Warrender chose to tell him, but that wouldn’t please him. What was there, then, that would? He did not know what he could do. He rode very carelessly, almost as much at the mercy of the pony as on the occasion when Theo picked him from under the wheels of the high phaeton; but either the pony was more wise, or Geoff stronger, for there was no question now of being thrown. When he came in sight of the little gate of the Warren, he saw someone standing there, at sight of whom he quickened his pace. He knew the general aspect of the man’s figure though he could not see his face, and this welcome new excitement made the heart jump up again in Geoff’s breast. He hurried along in a sudden cloud of dust, and threw himself off the pony like a little acrobat. “Mr. Cavendish!” cried Geoff, “have you come back?” with a glow of pleasure which drove all his troubles away.
It was Dick, very brown, very thin, a little wild in his aspect and dress. “Hallo, Geoff!” he replied. “Yes, I have come back. Didn’t they expect me to come back?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think they wondered.”
“That’s how it is in this world,” said the other; “nobody trusts you: as soon as you are out of sight—oh, I don’t say you’re out of mind—but nobody trusts you. They think that perhaps, after all, you were a villain all the time.”
To this, naturally, Geoff had no reply to make, but he said, “Are you going in that way, Mr. Cavendish?” Upon which Dick burst into a loud laugh, which Geoff knew meant anything but laughing.
“What do you think, Geoff?” he said. “My wife’s inside, and they’ve locked me out here. That’s a joke, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s any joke. And Chatty wants you so. Come round to the other door.”
“Are you sure of that?” said Dick. “Here’s that fellow been here—that Thynne fellow—and tells me—” Then he paused and looked at the boy, with another laugh. “You’re a queer confidant for a poor vagabond, little Geoff.”
“Is it because I’m little?” cried Geoff. “But though I am little there are a heap of things I know. I know they are all against you except Chatty. Come along and see Chatty. I want to go to her this moment and tell her—”
“I thought,” said Cavendish, “I’d wait for her here. I don’t want to make a mummy of that fellow, my brother-in-law, don’t you know, the first moment. Tell Chatty—tell my wife, Geoff—that I am waiting for her here.”
Geoff did not wait for another word, but clambered on to his pony again and was off like the wind, round by the village to the other gate. Meantime Dick stood and leaned upon the wooden paling. His face was sharp and thin with illness, with eagerness and suspense, his complexion browned and paled out of its healthful English tints. But this was not because he was weak any longer, or in diminished health. He was worn by incessant travelling, by anxiety and the fluctuation of hope and fear; but the great tension had strung his nerves and strengthened his vitality, though it had worn off every superfluous particle of flesh. A keen anxiety mingled with indignation was in his eyes as he looked across the gate which the clergyman had fastened against him—indignation, yet also a smile. From the moment when Geoff’s little voice had broken upon his angry reverie, Dick had begun to recover himself. “Chatty wants you so.” It was only a child that spoke. But a child does not flatter or deceive, and this was true. What Eustace Thynne thought, what anybody thought, was of little consequence. Chatty! The simple name brought a softening glow to Dick’s eye. Would she come and open to him? Would she reverse the judgment of the family by her own act, or would it be he who must emancipate Chatty? He waited with something of his old gaiety rising in his mind. The position was ludicrous. They had shut him out, but it could not be for long.
Geoff galloped his pony to the gate, and up the little avenue, which was still very shady and green, though so much of the wood had been cut. He
