Chapter XV: Commencing the Summer Term

THE first day of his school life at the Wreyford Grammar School was an unusual experience for Gerald Willis. He found himself in the same form as Tom Mickle, and discovered he need have no fears of being beaten by him in his work, for Tom, though a bright, sharp boy, was rather given to idling, and at the present time his mind was far more interested in sports than in his scholastic duties, which it must be confessed he somewhat neglected, and considered of quite secondary importance to football and cricket. It gratified Gerald to find he satisfied the form master as to his knowledge; therefore, he was in a decidedly complacent state of mind when, on the first day of the summer term, he found himself in the playground for the twenty minutes' break' in the middle of the morning. Then it was he discovered how different were many of the boys to those he had had for companions at the private school which he had attended in London. The latter had been all the sons of gentlemen, consequently Gerald was far from pleased when a big lad called Rabjohns, whom he knew to be the son of a Wreyford butcher, caught him by the collar and put him through a catechism as to who he was, what he was called, where he lived, and so on. Gerald felt vastly indignant at being questioned by this youth, and would dearly have liked to have told him to mind his own business, but the other boy was too big and strong to pick a quarrel with, so he wisely answered all his questions, though with no good grace.

"So you live at Haresdown House," said Rabjohns, still grasping him by the collar at arm's length, and surveying him from head to heels. "You're a relation of that old Australian chap, I suppose, who's bought the place? I know him by sight—drives a smart little turn-out, doesn't he, and generally has a little girl with him?"

"Yes—my sister."

"You haven't become chummy with any of the Grammar School boys yet, eh?"

"I know Gilbert and Tom Mickle, and Reginald Hope."

"Oh, the Mickles are well enough," Rabjohns allowed condescendingly; "certainly Gilbert's rather too high and mighty for my taste, but he's a clever chap, and keeps up the standard of the school for learning. Tom's a mischievous monkey, but he's a plucky youngster, and one of our shining lights in the football field. As to Reginald Hope—well, he's not likely to have much to say to a kid like you, and the less the better. There, you can go!" And the big boy gave Gerald a playful shake, dropped his hold of him with a good-tempered laugh.

Gerald was highly indignant. It was insufferable to be so spoken to and treated by the son of the man who supplied his uncle with meat. He wondered if Rabjohns knew that Mr. Bailey was one of his father's customers; he hardly thought it possible he could be aware of the fact. Whilst he was still looking angry and red in the face, he saw Gilbert Mickle at a little distance, leaning on his crutches, watching him with evident amusement. Gerald felt humiliated at the sight of the sarcastic smile on Gilbert's lips, but he could not resist the temptation of speaking to some one he knew, so he strolled up to the lame boy and commenced a conversation.

"I'm in the same form as Tom," he informed Gilbert.

"Are you?" Gilbert said, apparently not interested. "How do you like Rabjohns?" he asked, after a slight pause.

"I don't like him at all. I think he's an impertinent cad."

"Oh no! He's not a bad sort—one of the rough-and-ready kind, you know. He's all right, in his way—though it may not be your way or mine—and so's Higgs. That's Higgs talking to Rabjohns now."

"I see. Who's he?"

"The son of Higgs the stationer."

"Are most of the boys shopkeepers' sons?"

"A great many of them are. This is a public school, and open to any one. You'll soon find your proper level here."

Gerald did not quite understand what his companion meant, but somehow the remark did not please him.

"I advise you to keep in with Rabjohns," Gilbert proceeded carelessly; "he's one of the biggest boys in the school, and it's better for a youngster like you to have him for a friend than not."

Gerald, who had no intention of being on friendly terms with a butcher's son, made no reply. At that moment Reginald Hope passed by, and Gerald called to him eagerly.

"Oh, Hope! Wait a minute!"

But Hope, though he certainly must have heard, elected not to stop, and hurried on without so much as a glance in Gerald's direction, and joined a group of boys about his own age.

"He's like that," Gilbert remarked in what he meant to be a kindly tone, for he was really sorry for his companion's mortification; "he doesn't want you now he's got his old companions. He found it all very well to knock about with you in the holidays when he'd no one else to chum with, but it's different now. Those fellows he's talking to are boarders. If I were you—"

Gerald waited to hear no more; he turned abruptly away, not desirous of listening to unpalatable truths; but after school hours, when he was hurrying down the street on his way home to dinner, Reginald Hope overtook him and walked by his side.

"I say, Willis, I wouldn't stop to talk to you in the playground because I can't stand Gilbert Mickle," Hope said apologetically; "you understand?"

Gerald's face cleared; he felt he had been unjust to his friend. Of course Hope did not like Gilbert. He might have known that was his reason for passing without a word. The lame boy was not a favourite with any one.

"Oh, it's all right!" Gerald answered, thinking that it had been mean of Gilbert to try to put him against Hope. "I don't care for Gilbert Mickle myself; he's so spiteful."

"Was he spiteful about me? Oh, well, you needn't say; I can see by your face he was. But, never mind about him, now. How do you think you will like the Grammar School?"

"I hardly know. I haven't made friends with any of the boys yet. I only know you, and the Mickles. Rabjohns spoke to me."

"Oh, he's nobody! His father's a butcher, you know. If he was a lord, Rabjohns couldn't think more of himself. I say, Willis, how much pocket-money are you to have a week?"

Gerald told him. It was a generous allowance for a boy of his age, for his father had lately raised the amount; but Hope appeared to consider it quite inadequate.

"Is that all?" the latter exclaimed. "Why, I get twice as much, and even on that I should have to be awfully close and mean if I did not increase it. You'll have to do as I do, and stretch your money a bit."

"I wish I could, but I don't know how to do that," Gerald said, laughing.

"Oh, I can easily tell you," the other replied seriously.

Whereupon followed a private and confidential conversation, carried on in low tones, until Gerald suddenly remembered that he must not dawdle any longer if he meant to be at Haresdown House by dinner-time.

"I must go," he declared hurriedly, "or I shall keep dinner waiting, and Uncle Edward hates any one to be unpunctual. I'll see you again after school this afternoon."

"Very well. Think over what I've said, and don't be a fool to your own interests. Good-bye!"

Reginald Hope turned on his heel and retraced his footsteps, whilst Gerald ran off homewards. He soon left the town behind him, and reached the bridge over the Wrey, where he paused a moment to take breath; then hurried on past Miss Goodwin's pretty villa, and up the hill. Angel was waiting for him at the gate to tell how she had fared that morning, for she had been to school for the first time to-day, and was longing to recount her new experiences. But he scarcely listened to her eager tale, and she was in consequence not a little disappointed.

It was the same in the evening, when, her lessons prepared for the following day, she would have been so very glad of a confidant. Gerald, as soon as he had finished his work, which he had done after many grumbles because his sister was no longer allowed to assist him, went out to join Reginald Hope, thus destroying her hopes of a chat with him that night. She saw very little of her brother nowadays, and sometimes it almost seemed to her that he loved her less than he used to. In the old time, in the dingy London lodgings, though he had always domineered over her, he had been generally affectionate and kind; now he was often impatient, and vexed with her when she could not see everything in the same light as he did; and he resented the fact that she did not help him with his lessons, quite unmindful that it was their father who had set his veto against her doing so.

Mr. Willis was in his studio, busy over some illustrations for an order he had received by post that day; and knowing it would not do to disturb him, Angel put on her hat and strolled out to her own patch of garden, where she stood meditatively regarding the plants she had potted out a few days previously. She was thinking of her brother, and wondering why, though he had the same home and advantages as herself and the same reasons for happiness, he was not as contented as she was. He grumbled as much or more now than he had done in their London lodgings. Then he had bewailed their poverty; now, though he had plenty of the blessings of life, he still wished for more. Only that morning he had borrowed money from his sister, as he had been in the habit of doing lately—money which she knew he never meant to return; and whilst he kept her poor, he yet appeared never to have enough for himself. She was certain her father would be greatly displeased if he was aware of this; and at the same time she dreaded his knowing it, and yet realized that he ought to know. But she could not tell tales of Gerald! She had grown up to hide his faults, and make much of his good qualities, not wisely, of course, but with the sincere desire of shielding him from all unpleasantness because he was younger than she was, and the affection she bore him was a deep, protecting love. Besides, she had promised her mother to be good to Gerald, and she was trying to keep her word according to her own idea of what being good to him meant. Presently Mr. Bailey entered the garden, and interrupted her troubled meditation by calling to her to come and see how the apple blossom had opened during the last few days. She followed him into the orchard where the gnarled boughs of the old apple trees, so brown and bare a short while ago, were now one mass of pink and white bloom; and listened with the ready attention which always pleased her uncle whilst he pointed out the different spots where he intended planting new trees in the fall of the year.

"Not but what the old trees will last my time," he told her smilingly, "but one must look ahead, and not live for self alone. Ah, I knew these trees as saplings, for my father planted this orchard, and I've not forgotten the taste of the fruit, or the names of the different apples I used to fancy when I was a boy. Butter-boxes! Quarantines! Barter's beauties! Ah, my dear, your grandfather and I knew the best sorts for eating, and I've no doubt you and Gerald will gain the same knowledge when autumn comes."

She thought it very possible. There was a rustic seat in one corner of the orchard upon which they sat down, whilst he turned the conversation to the subject of school, and inquired how she had done that morning; whereupon she told him that she was not as far behind other girls of her age in general knowledge as she had feared she would be, which happy state of affairs she put down to her having always assisted Gerald with his home lessons.

"I know I shall like it at school," she said earnestly, "and I mean to learn all I can. Dinah Mickle is such a kind girl; she has introduced me to several of her friends, and she has promised to help me about anything I do not understand."

"That is certainly very kind of her," Mr. Mickle agreed; "a helping hand is of great value sometimes. I am glad you like the Mickle children. Do you know it is settled that Gilbert is to take drawing and painting lessons from your father? Mr. Mickle called here this afternoon, and the matter was arranged. Your father wanted to give Gilbert the lessons, but Mr. Mickle objected to that, and insisted on paying, which, as a business man, I think quite right. So the lad is to come every Saturday afternoon for a couple of hours. Do you favour the idea?"

"Oh yes, Uncle Edward, if you and father do. Oh, don't you think father is ever so much better?"

"Yes, thank God! I have an idea it may turn-out that illness of his was for the best after all. It was a sad disappointment about his picture; but when Providence interposes and prevents our carrying out the work we had intended, I think we may rest assured that there's a wiser hand than ours guiding our affairs. What do you say, my dear?"

"I am sure you are right, Uncle Edward. Mother used to talk to me like that, and say we must have faith in God, even when we can't see the reason for what He does."

"And that happens so often, doesn't it, child? But God's sight is clear where ours is dim; and if He denies us something on which we have set our hearts, often it is to give us a greater blessing still. He knows best, that's certain. 'We walk by faith, and not by sight,' you know."

That night, when Angel pulled up her bedroom blind before getting into bed, she uttered an exclamation of delight. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking the kitchen garden and orchard. The young May moon had arisen, and by its soft light the little girl could see the shadowy old grey church on the hill, and the stretch of green, flower-decked meadows which lay between it and Haresdown House.

"How lovely! oh, how lovely!" she exclaimed. "And, oh, how beautiful the orchard looks! No wonder uncle loves the place so much."

Her heart was full of affection and gratitude towards Mr. Bailey for his goodness to her and those she loved. That her father fully appreciated his generosity and kindness she well knew, but she was not so sure about Gerald. The latter took everything as a matter of course; indeed, since they had come to Wreyford she had had many occasions to notice her brother's selfishness, and had begun to contrast his behaviour to her to the manner in which the Mickle boys treated their sisters—even with Gilbert it was always "girls first." Then she reproached herself for doubting her brother's affection, and jumped into bed with the determination to worry about him no longer. No doubt he was right when he said boys had more need of money than girls; but, nevertheless, she could not blind herself to the fact that Gerald was acquiring the habit of spending beyond his means. The more money he had, the more money he wanted.