Chapter XI: 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!"