“It is that tall house before you come to the village—a tall, tall house, with a wall all round, as if to keep prisoners in. I know there are no prisoners now. Of course not! There are people all about in the fields and everywhere, who would soon tell the policeman and set you free. I was not afraid. Still, if the gates had been shut, and they refused to open, I don’t know what one would do. The lady was like a picture in the Pilgrim’s Progress—that one, you know—I thought her pretty at first. But then she held me in her arm as if I had been a baby.”
“Oh, it would be Those People!” said Minnie, moved to a passing exclamation of horror.
“Never mind that now. You must not venture out again without the groom, for it makes your mother unhappy—Theo,” said Mrs. Warrender, with a smile and a sigh, “when he was a little fellow like you, never did anything to make me unhappy.”
“Didn’t he?” said Geoff seriously. “But I didn’t know. How could I tell pony would so soon get hungry? He hasn’t a regular dinnertime, as we have; only munches and munches all day. But I was telling you about the tall house.”
“You must tell me another time, Geoff. Theo must bring you back with him sometimes for a holiday.”
“Yes,” said Geoff, “that would do better. Pony would go splendid by the side of Theo’s big black. I shall come often—when I do my lessons well. I have never done any lessons except with mamma. Does Theo like teaching boys?”
“I don’t know, my dear. I don’t think he has ever tried.”
“Then why is he coming to teach me? That, at the very bottom of it, you know, is what I wanted him to tell me; for he would not tell straight out, the real truth, before mamma.”
“I hope he always tells the real truth,” said Mrs. Warrender gently. “I suppose, my little Geoff, it is because he is fond of you.”
Upon this Geoff shook his little head for a long time, twisting his face and blinking his keen little eyes. “He is not fond of me—oh no, it is not that. I can do with Theo very well—as well as with anyone; but he is not fond of me.”
“I am glad to hear that you can do with Theo,” said the mother, much amused.
“Yes. I don’t mind him at all: but he is not fond of me; and he is sure not to teach mamma’s way, and that is the only way I know. If he were to want to punish me, Mrs. Warrender—”
“I hope, my dear, there will be no question of that.”
“I shouldn’t mind,” said the boy, “but mamma wouldn’t like it. It might be very awkward for Theo. You are flogged when you go to school, aren’t you? At least, all the books say so. Mamma,” he went on, raising his voice, “here is a difficulty—a great difficulty. If Theo should want to flog me, what should you do?”
Lady Markland did not hear him for the moment. She was absorbed!—this was the remark made by Minnie, who watched with the intensest observation. Then Geoff, in defiance of good manners, drummed on the table to attract his mother’s attention, and elevated his voice: “Can’t you hear what I am saying, mamma? If I were to be stupid with my lessons, and Theo were to flog me—” (“It is only putting a case, for I am not stupid,” he added, for Mrs. Warrender’s instruction, in an undertone.)
“You must not suggest anything so dreadful,” said Lady Markland from the other end of the table. “But now you must thank Mrs. Warrender, Geoff, and Mr. Theo, and everyone; for the carriage has come round, and it is growing late, and we must go away.”
Then Mrs. Warrender rose, as in duty bound, and the whole party with her. “I will not ask you to stay; it is late for him, and he has had too much excitement,” said the mistress of the house.
“And to think I might never have brought him home at all, never heard his voice again, but for your dear son, your good son!” cried Lady Markland, taking both her hands, putting forward her head, with its smooth silken locks in which the light shone, and the soft round of her uplifted face, to the elder woman, with an emotion and tenderness which went to Mrs. Warrender’s heart. She gave the necessary kiss, but though she was touched there was no enthusiasm in her reply.
“You must not think too much of that, Lady Markland. I hope he would have done it for any child in danger.”
This, of course, is always perfectly true; but it chills the effusion of individual gratitude. Lady Markland raised her head, but she still held Mrs. Warrender’s hands. “I wish,” she said, “oh, I wish you would tell me frankly! Does it vex you that he should be so good to me? This kind, kind offer about Geoff—is it too much? Yes, yes, I know it is too much; but how can I refuse what he is so good, so charitable, as to offer, when it is such a boon to us? Oh, if you would tell me! Is it displeasing, is it distasteful to you?”
“I don’t know how to answer you,” Mrs. Warrender said.
“Ah! but that is an answer. Dear Mrs. Warrender, help me to refuse it without wounding his feelings. I have always felt it was too much.”
“Lady Markland, I cannot interfere. He is old enough to judge for himself. He will not accept guidance from me—ah, nor from you either, except in the one way.” She returned the pressure of her visitor’s hand, which had relaxed, with one that was as significant. “It is not
