This audio was created with an artificial voice for the audiobook initiative on Sermon Audio. Chapter 27 Waiting The winter months passed quietly away, not quite so sadly or so slowly as I had feared. Children accommodate themselves to circumstances very quickly, and we soon drew used to the sight even of our active Geoffrey lying day after day upon the sofa, unable to run about any more, unable soon to do anything at all that could not be accomplished lying very flat and very quiet. At first he used to be taken out to the carriage, warmly wrapped, and driven out every fine day, but by degrees he seemed to shrink even from the gentle movement of the carriage, and used to come back looking very white indeed. And one day he fainted when he was lifted out and laid on his own sofa, and after that no more drives were talked of. It was almost more than he could bear to be lifted from the bed on to the couch, and then wheeled on the couch out into the hall or into his father's He slept now in a room on the ground floor, so that he could be wheeled into the rooms in which we sat. He was always cheerful, even when the pain was very bad, as it often was now. He interested himself over his books of dried plants and his collections of shells and seaweed and birds' eggs, and was never tired of reading books on the subject and hearing all that his father had to tell about them. When he was well enough, he dearly loved to be taken into the museum to examine the curiosities there, and I often thought that Uncle Reginald was quite astonished at the amount he had read and what he had mastered of the facts in natural history in nearly all its branches. I was very much with Geoffrey during these winter days, for I could not be much out of doors when the cold was severe, and I enjoyed being his companion and serving-man as he had once been mine when I had been the lame and helpless one. Ted went now to the rectory with Arthur, and as the hours for study were longer in the wintertime, and the amount of work to be prepared at home greater, they were not very much with us. I used to fancy that they did not much enjoy our society, that there was something painful to them in seeing Geoffrey lying there, looking so white and so thin, and yet so patient and cheerful. Anyway, they kept a good deal to themselves and were not much with us. Aunt Mary was often with us, and she looked after Geoffrey with unceasing tenderness and care. His leg, I know, got very bad, although I never saw it, and she did everything for him. I think, brave though he was, he could have hardly borne to let any hand less gentle than hers touch or move the injured limb. Uncle Reginald, too, was very kind to us and spent much time with his sick boy. I used to think he was often not a little puzzled by Geoffrey's sayings and doings. They showed such a different mind and character from what he had believed him to possess that it sometimes seemed almost to bewilder him, and I think he studied the boy very closely. Geoffrey had always seemed destined to bear the blame which really belonged to others, and it was perhaps not wonderful that his father had never fully understood him. When he and Ted had been alone together, it was his principle to shield his little brother at all times, and since Arthur came, Geoffrey had had nearly all the weight of his misdeeds to bear, and we had all stood by silently, allowing blame and punishment to fall upon him. Perhaps it was no wonder that Colonel Douglas had mistaken his son's nature, yet now that circumstances had changed, now that Geoffrey was no longer capable of committing acts of mischievous disobedience, and yet when those acts which once were always attributed to him continued to be committed, then I think he did grow perplexed and shaken in the estimate he had formed of more than one member of his household. Arthur had certainly improved, and many combined causes worked together to make him less overbearing and tyrannical than he had once been, but he was by no means a reformed character yet. The change that had come over him was one of policy, not of principle, and therefore could not be expected to bear very good fruit. He still loved his own way, and hated all restraint, and many times was guilty of acts of covert rebellion and of deceit, But he knew that now he would have to bear the blame of his own deeds if discovered, and that thought made him more careful. He could not any longer make Geoffrey the butt for his sarcasm and ill-natured pleasantry. He teased him sometimes, as was his nature, but he never carried it far. He knew he would get no sympathy or encouragement from anyone. Besides, he really was sorry for Geoffrey. At first he had been quite kind and gentle, but the keen edge of his sympathy wore off in time. His was not a nature to be very deeply impressed by any such sentiment. As for me, my love for Geoffrey increased daily, and the admiration I had always felt for his bravery was now almost boundless. I think it was these two feelings, growing rapidly stronger as I watched him day by day, that made me first form a plan and then determine upon an act the carrying out of which required a great deal of courage from me, though others might have accomplished it with ease. This resolution was nothing more nor less than a full and free confession to Uncle Reginald of all those acts in which I had participated, and the blame of which had fallen upon Geoffrey. I would say as little as possible to criminate the others, but confess my own share, and clear, Geoffrey, I was resolved I would. I had a wild hope that I might perhaps persuade Arthur and Ted to join me, but I could feel no confidence as to this. It was not an easy scheme to put into execution, simple as it sounds, for in the first place I felt bound to tell Arthur of my intention, and I knew I should have to withstand vehement opposition from him. He would try to bind me to the promises of concealment he had often wrung from me, and although I felt that I had no real right to make such promises, and that it was more wrong to let Geoffrey go on uncleared from blame than to break a word I ought never to have given. Still, it made the matter look very hard, and I was a long while in making up my mind to it. In fact, I was so long that I found myself obliged to delay the execution of the plan until after Geoffrey went to London for the operation. Just before that time we had all too much to think of to have room in our minds for other considerations, and I felt that any excitement would be bad for Geoffrey, and that Uncle Reginald was too anxious just then to care to be called upon to give his thoughts to any matter beyond Geoffrey's physical state. This time of waiting had tried us all in one way or another. We boys, of course, felt it the least, the elders very much, but I did not know until just at the end how wearily it had passed for Geoffrey. It was only about two evenings before he was to go up to London that he spoke of this to me. Arnold, he said suddenly, after a rather long spell of silence, I am so glad the time has nearly come. Are you, Geoffrey? I think that I should be afraid. What of? Oh, you know, of having it done. I shan't feel it. They will give me something to send me to sleep all the time. But won't it hurt dreadfully afterwards? I don't think it can hurt much worse than it often does now. You are very brave, Geoffrey, and very, very patient. I often wonder how you can be, and you do so love to run about and be out of doors. A wistful light shone in his eyes, but he answered bravely, You see it was only for a little while. That makes such a difference. I knew all the time I had only to wait and be patient, and all would come right. When this bone comes out I shall get strong and well again, and it has been cold winter weather. If it had been the springtime it would have been much harder to bear. It will be spring by the time you get back, I remarked. Aunt Mary says you will be a month away, and it is March now. Will you be able to run about then? No, not so soon as that, I think. Aunt Mary says I shall be a long while getting well, but I shall be getting better, you know. The pain will be going away, and I shall be getting stronger. I shall sit out of doors and drive out, and I think Papa will get me a chair to wheel myself about the garden. Oh, it will be nice to see everything again and watch all the flowers coming up and see the new chicks and the little peacocks. And I can drive Lightfoot again and see how the woods look with all their early green and watch for the primroses and cow's lips and bluebells to come. And there will be the cuckoo to listen for and the swallows to watch. Oh, I do love the springtime. I shall be so happy. And I shall be thinking all the while that by the time the grass has grown tall, perhaps by hay-making time, or at any rate by harvest, I shall be able to run about, and then the winter will not seem one bit sad when I can run and skate and slide again." Geoffrey's face quite glowed. I had hardly heard so long or so animated a speech from him all through the winter. I cannot tell what made me give the response I did. Boys are not renowned for thoughtfulness, and it certainly was not a wise speech. But, Geoffrey, what if you never do come back? Don't people sometimes die when they have things done to them? But I am very glad the waiting is over now." Two days later the waiting was quite over, and Geoffrey had gone up to London, under the care of Uncle Reginald and Aunt Mary. He said goodbye with a brave smile on his pale face, but it was with a very heavy heart that I saw him drive away. I could not help feeling that a chapter in my life, and in his, had closed forever. End of chapter 27 Waiting This audio was created with an artificial voice for the audiobook initiative on Sermon Audio. There may be mispronunciations or occasional repetitions. To report a mistake, please email us at info at sermonaudio.com and include the sermon ID or title of the message and the time at which the error occurs. We will do our best to get it corrected for future listeners.