"I wish Uncle Edward would buy one," Gerald remarked; "perhaps he will."
"Oh no, I should think not! Pianos are very expensive," Angel reminded him.
"I don't believe he would mind the expense! How well mother used to play, didn't she? Father used to say she could make the piano speak."
"Yes, and he used to ask her to play to him evenings, and she would sing to us, too. I do hope I shall get on with my music, I love it so. One Saturday afternoon, I was passing the church with Dinah and Dora Mickle, and we heard some one playing the organ—it was the organist practising. We went in and sat down in a pew, and listened to him for more than an hour. I think sacred music is grand, don't you? Dinah knew the names of some of the pieces he played; one was, 'Comfort ye my people.' Oh, it was beautiful!" And she began to sing the refrain softly under her breath.
Gerald had been listening in rather an absentminded manner, his mind occupied with wondering who could have told tales of him to Angel, since it had not been Gilbert Mickle.
"It's Dora's birthday next week," Angel said presently, "and I believe we are to be invited to the Mickles to have tea in the garden. Won't it be fun? Dora will be the Queen of the day. She will be nine years old. I know what Dinah is going to give her for a birthday present, she has been saving her money for it for weeks, but I've promised not to tell. I cannot think what I shall give Dora; I've only eighteen pence!"
"Eighteen pence," Gerald repeated thoughtfully. "And when is Dora's birthday?"
"Next Tuesday."
"Oh! Well, you wouldn't mind lending me sixpence or so, if I pay you again on Saturday, would you?"
"No—o," Angel responded doubtfully, looking aghast, and wishing she had not mentioned the subject of money; "but—are you sure you will be able to pay me then?"
"Quite—quite sure!"
She took her purse from her pocket, and counted sixpence into his hand in coppers, then paused. He looked at her a little impatiently.
"I've only a shilling besides," she said. "Isn't that enough?"
"Oh, you may as well let me have the shilling as well!"
She did so, and returned her purse to her pocket, looking very sober. Gerald's spirits seemed suddenly to rise.
"You needn't fear that you won't get it again on Saturday," he told her gaily, "I promise solemnly to pay it back this time."
"Oh, if you do, you needn't bother about the rest of what you owe me," she responded quickly. "I don't want to be mean, but I should be dreadfully put out if I couldn't give Dora a birthday present!"
"Of course you would. I think I must give her something myself; I'll see about it. I wonder what she'd like!"
Angel was quite unconscious that her brother had asked her to join him for a talk with the idea of inducing her to lend him some money, and that she had made the broaching of the subject easy for him. If he really repaid her on Saturday she would be pleased to think she had been able to serve him. The little girl would have been horrified if she had known how her money would be spent. The truth of the matter was that Gerald had fallen into the clutches of unscrupulous hands, for Reginald Hope had soon discovered the weak points in his character; and Gerald, flattered at being noticed by a boy older than himself, had been easily induced to indulge in betting on a small scale. Unfortunately, sometimes he had won—otherwise, perhaps he would not have continued in what he knew in his heart to be an evil course—but oftener he lost, and then found great difficulty in paying his debts. At the present time he owed Reginald Hope several shillings, and the eighteen pence he had just borrowed from his sister he intended handing over on the morrow to the boy who was certainly his evil genius. He hoped by Saturday to win back some of the money he had lost, and by that means to keep faith with Angel.
Gerald, as may be imagined, was not at all happy at this period of his life. He was shrewd enough to see that the fact of his being under the patronage of Reginald Hope was quite enough to make many of the Grammar School boys regard him with suspicion; even the Mickles were not as genial to him as they had been at first, and Rabjohns had been heard to say that "Young Willis was a regular toady to Hope," a remark which had made Gerald all the angrier because he could not fail to recognize there was truth in it. It had been a great surprise to find that the butcher's son, with his plain unvarnished speech, was respected in the school far more than the doctor's son, with his fascinating manners and plausible tongue; and that instead of Hope's refusing to know Rabjohns, it was Rabjohns who actually declined to have anything to do with Hope.
The brother and sister remained in the orchard till the sun set, and it began to grow chilly under the trees; then they rose, and walked towards the house.
"I wish you'd tell me who spoke to you about my having been fishing in the clay pits last Saturday," Gerald said coaxingly; "I should like to know who it was."
But Angel shook her head and refused to tell. "You'll keep your word, and not go there again, won't you?" she questioned.
"Oh yes, of course I will! You needn't think any more about it. You might tell me—"
"And Gerald," she interposed, "you'll remember to pray to God to help you to tell the truth, won't you? You'll—"
"Oh, you've said all that before! Yes, yes," he added hastily as he saw her countenance fall, and her eyes fill with tears. "Don't you worry about me; I'm all right."
They found supper on the table when they entered the house. Mr. Willis noticed his little daughter's manner seemed unusually subdued; but he thought very probably the hot summer day had tired her. He was looking very bright himself, and was so much better that every one noticed the great improvement in his appearance since his arrival at Wreyford. He had taken up his work again with renewed energy, and declared, when his uncle warned him not to do too much, that there was little fear of that, for he felt nearly well.
After supper he sat down on the sofa, and drew Angel down by his side, as he generally did of an evening, and bade her give him an account of her doings that day. She obeyed, and they conversed together until it was time for her to go to bed.
Gerald had retired for the night early, and was firm asleep when his sister peeped into his room before going to her own. She stole to his bedside, and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He was utterly unconscious of her presence, for the pressure of her soft lips was not enough to disturb him, and he never knew that she knelt down and prayed God to forgive him his sins, and teach him to be a good boy.
So Angel's loving, faithful heart was lifted in prayer for the brother who, after all his promises, had neglected to pray for himself.
THE following Saturday evening found Angel with her father and uncle in the churchyard on Haresdown hill. They had been for a walk, and now stood leaning over the churchyard wall admiring the view, and watching the sunset. The western sky was gorgeous in its colouring, its hues deepening from delicate shell pink to brilliant crimson and gold, the reflected glory of which lit up the old grey church, and cast a rosy glow over the meadows lying between Haresdown hill and the town, over which a faint grey mist was now rising.
There had been silence for some time when Mr. Bailey glanced from one to the other of his companions, and said with a smile—
"I wonder what we have been thinking of these last few minutes. Not one of us has spoken a word!"
"I was watching that cloud," Mr. Willis returned, indicating a snowy speck in the western sky, "and trying to remember a poem I once read called 'The Evening Cloud,' written, I presume, after watching another such a glorious sight as this. The poet imagined the white cloud slowly floating towards the sunset an emblem of the immortality of the soul. I cannot remember all the poem, only these lines—"
"Emblem, methought, of the departed soul
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven.
Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies."
"Is not that a beautiful idea most beautifully expressed?"
Angel slipped her hand through her father's arm, and met his eyes with understanding in her own. She needed no words to tell her that he was thinking of her mother, whose faithful soul had reached the golden gates of Heaven, and was now safe in the presence of God.
"It is indeed a beautiful idea," Mr. Bailey answered, whilst Angel, after that one glance at her father, watched the white cloud with quickened interest. "Now, I will tell you what I was thinking of," he continued seriously, "and then Angel must let us know her thoughts too!"
The little girl looked somewhat embarrassed on hearing this. She had been thinking of her brother, and wondering where he was spending the evening, for he had left the house after tea without telling any one where he had been going, and had thus lost the walk with his father and uncle, which she felt certain he would have enjoyed. Gerald had not, as yet, paid her the eighteen pence he had borrowed from her a few days previously; and she had been considering whether there was the least probability of his doing so, or if she would be prevented from giving Dora a birthday present after all. So her thoughts had not been happy ones, and she was most undesirous of making them known.
"I have been thinking how grateful I ought to be to God for giving me my heart's desire," Mr. Bailey said earnestly. Then, as the others looked at him inquiringly, he proceeded to explain— "I always wished to return to my native town to end my days, and I worked hard with the fixed idea of coming home and settling here. That ambition was always before me; but I never dreamt I should have an opportunity of buying back Haresdown House. It has been such happiness to visit once more the places that were familiar to me when your father and I were boys, John. And I cannot express how much the companionship of yourself and your children enhances my pleasure in everything. Think how lonely I should be but for you!"
"And think what would have become of us all but for you, Uncle Edward," Mr. Willis responded, with deep feeling in his tone. "I should have been sent to a hospital when I was so ill, and I dare not contemplate what would have become of Angel and Gerald then!"
"God would have taken care of them," Mr. Bailey reminded him, "but I am glad I happened to be in England when you wanted me. Happened! Why, I'm talking as though it was just by chance, when we know all the while there was no chance about it. It was God's wisdom that planned the right time for my return."
"Do you think God plans everything for us?" Angel asked.
"Yes, my dear, I do; but sometimes we're foolish and think we know better than He does what is good for us, and we complain because He denies us something upon which we have set our hearts, and we put our will against His, and wonder because we are unsatisfied and unhappy; and then, maybe, He shows us why what He denied us was not for us, and we find He knew best. It saves a lot of fretting and worrying if one can only learn to trust in God."
"Yes," the little girl agreed thoughtfully, recalling that evening in the orchard when the apple trees had been in bloom, and Mr. Bailey had talked to her in a similar fashion with "God knows best" for his text—words which to him were the philosophy of life, the expression of his faith in the perfect wisdom and goodness of God. "Yes," she repeated, "but it is very difficult—often—isn't it, father?"
Mr. Willis nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sky, where the sun had now disappeared from view. Mr. Bailey pointed to the mist arising in the valley, and suggested the advisability of moving homewards.
"The fog is from the sea." he said, "and is evidently coming in with the tide."
"But the tide does not flow so far up the river as Wreyford, does it?" Mr. Willis asked, in surprise.
"No, but it is felt within a few miles of here," Mr. Bailey replied. "I remember we used to say at Haresdown House, when the wind was blowing in a certain direction, that we could smell the sea."
"The air is certainly always beautifully fresh and invigorating," Mr. Willis said. "Well, I am loath to move yet, but I suppose it would be wiser to do so."
"Oh yes, father!" Angel cried eagerly. "You know the doctor said you must take care of yourself, and not run the risk of catching cold by being out of doors too late."
They passed through the churchyard, and out by the lych-gate into the road, Angel with her arm linked in her father's.
"I wish Gerald had been with us this evening," the latter remarked, "I believe he would have enjoyed the walk. I wonder where he has gone."
"I don't know," Angel answered, "I expect he is with Reginald Hope, he spends most of his spare time with him."
"Young Hope is older than Gerald," Mr. Willis said reflectively, "so it is rather strange they should be such close friends. I suppose they have tastes in common. I see very little of Gerald nowadays. I hope you don't help him with his lessons now, Angel?"
"Oh no!" she responded promptly; "he learns them quite by himself."
"That's well. You have enough to do to attend to your own. By the way, I am afraid Gerald is growing extravagant; he spends more money than he ought."
"Why do you give it to him, John?" Mr. Bailey inquired abruptly, whilst Angel started and grew red. "I thought he had a regular weekly allowance?"
"He has, but he always exceeds it."
"I don't think he should be allowed to do that," Mr. Bailey remarked gravely, "he should be taught to keep within his means. I suppose you allow him as much as you consider he ought to have?"
"Certainly. I expect he fritters away his money at the 'tuck-shop;' he has a great liking for sweetmeats, has he not?" Mr. Willis asked of Angel.
"Yes," she admitted, turning her face away from her father's gaze lest it should betray her uneasy thoughts to his observant eyes.
"But he cannot spend all his money in sweets," Mr. Bailey objected. "Why, one day last week he had half-a-crown from you, John; and I know the next morning he had not a farthing, because he came to me and asked me to give him sixpence."
"Asked you to give him sixpence!" Mr. Willis cried in surprise, and Angel, glancing at him quickly, saw he looked very vexed. "Did you let him have it, Uncle Edward?" he asked.
"No, I did not. I told him I considered he spent too much money, and lectured him on his extravagance! I really think, John, you should interfere; I believe he keeps Angel poor by borrowing from her."
"Oh, Uncle Edward!" the little girl cried, starting violently. "How did you find out that? I never told you."
"I overheard your brother asking you for money one day, my dear, and I have noticed that rarely spend any on yourself, so I drew my own conclusions. Ah, I see I am right!"
She did not know what to say. Her father watched the changing expressions of her face with growing wonderment, and noted that her grey eyes were full of tears.
"Angel, how long has this been going on?" he asked.
"What, father?"
"How long has Gerald been in the habit of borrowing money from you?"
"A—a long while," she confessed in low tones. "Ever since we have been at Haresdown House?"
"Yes."
"Before?" he questioned.
"Sometimes—not so often; you know, father, I did not have pocket-money regularly in London."
"No, poor child!"
"I didn't want any there," she assured him eagerly. "And I don't mind letting Gerald have it now—that is, generally. Oh!" she cried, turning a reproachful glance upon Mr. Bailey, "why did you say anything about it? You don't think I begrudge my money to Gerald, do you?"
"No, my dear, certainly not," Mr. Bailey responded gravely; "but I see no reason why you should be victimised."
"No, indeed!" Mr. Willis exclaimed. "But, Angel, if Gerald borrows your money, surely he pays it back?"
She shook her head; and her father frowned. He was very angry with his son. Naturally easygoing and unbusiness-like himself, he had never calculated how much money went through Gerald's hands; now, for the first time, he was seriously considering the matter, with the result that he was quite dismayed. Better would it have been for the boy if his father had been of a more suspicious nature!
"Angel, why didn't you tell me about it?" Mr. Willis questioned reproachfully. "If I had known, I would not have allowed Gerald to treat you like that."
"Oh, father, don't look so sorry!" she cried. "You won't worry about it, will you? And—and please don't be too angry with poor Gerald. I dare say he wants money a great deal more than I do!"
"He evidently thinks so," Mr. Willis responded drily. "But what does he do with it all?" he continued, glancing in a puzzled fashion at Mr. Bailey, who shook his head, evidently unable to solve that problem. "I must have a serious talking to him, and hear what he has to say for himself."
"You won't be hard on him, will you?" Angel pleaded, for she was conscious that her father was deeply annoyed. "I know he ought not to—"
"Pray don't try to make excuses for him!" Mr. Willis broke in, with unusual sharpness in his tone. "I see one thing very plainly, that he stands a great chance of being ruined by his sister."
"Oh, father!" she exclaimed distressfully.
"I am aware it is your affection for him that makes you so foolishly give in to his wishes," Mr. Willis proceeded, "but it's a great pity. Why cannot you stand up for your own rights? You are older than Gerald, and yet—there, child, don't look so hurt! One would think I was unkind to you!"
"Oh no, no!" Angel replied earnestly. "Oh, father, have I done very wrong? I did think that perhaps I ought to tell you how much money Gerald was spending, but if I had, he would have said I was a sneak, and, of course, I did not want to get him into trouble."
"You should have told me your brother was in the habit of borrowing your money and never paying it back; he has not behaved with common honesty. Your silence was a mistake."
They had by this time reached the entrance to Haresdown House, where they found Gerald himself waiting for them. His father laid a hand on his arm, and briefly requested him to come to the studio as he had something important to say to him.
Angel and Mr. Bailey were now left alone together. The former's face expressed the deepest concern and uneasiness, whilst the latter's ruddy, countenance looked exceedingly grave.
"Father is very angry," Angel said in a sorrowful tone. "Oh, how I wish you had not told him!"
"My dear child," he replied earnestly, "it was right he should know—for Gerald's sake. Has your love for your brother quite blinded you to what the consequences of your always hiding his misdoings must inevitably be? Your father spoke truly when he said Gerald stands a great chance of being ruined by you."
"Oh, Uncle Edward, you don't understand! I promised mother I would be loving and patient with him. Neither you nor father know how I feel!" And she turned from him, her eyes swimming with tears, and rushed into the house, and upstairs to her own room, where she threw herself down by the bedside and wept without restraint. It was so bitterly hard to be blamed for trying to shield Gerald.
After a while she grew calmer, and, rising from her knees, went to the door and unlatched it, so that she might hear when her brother came out of the studio. She could hear the murmur of voices below, her father's grave and displeased; and Gerald's sounding rather sulky, she thought. After a while the studio door was opened, and, straining her ears, she was able to catch what her father said—
"Very well, my boy. I hope you will keep your word. You must be more careful for the future, for the idea of your squandering money is most painful to me. Remember how needy we have been in the past! And you have treated your sister most unfairly—most dishonourably! I could hardly believe it when I heard about it. Let me see by your future conduct that you are serving her with greater consideration."
"Yes, father," Gerald's voice returned. "May I go now, please?"
"Certainly."
The studio door closed, and the next minute Gerald ascended the stairs. Angel stepped out on the landing, her tear-stained face brightening, for she had gleaned from the few words she had overheard that her brother and father's interview had come to a satisfactory conclusion.
"Gerald," she said softly under her breath as the boy reached her side, "was father very angry? Come in, and tell me what he said."
"Not likely!" he retorted, his face, which had been pale before, suddenly crimsoning with passion, his eyes flashing indignation upon her. "You've got me into a row, and that ought to satisfy you!"
"But it was not my fault! Oh, Gerald, listen to me!" she exclaimed in great distress. "Oh, tell me, was father very angry?"
"Much you care if he was! You mean thing! Just because I hadn't paid you that wretched eighteen pence to go and make this fuss! Sneak! Sneak!" he hissed between his clenched teeth as he turned away and entered his own room.
He did not expect her to follow him, but she did, and began to explain that she had not been instrumental in getting him into trouble, as he appeared to think; but he turned upon her fiercely, and would not listen.
"Get out of my room this instant!" he commanded. "Go quickly, or I'll make you!"
"Indeed, Gerald—"
"Go!" he interrupted impatiently. "You nasty hypocrite, you!"
"Oh, don't call me such names!" she said pleadingly. "Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry—" She broke off with a sob. Had she been wise she would have left him until he was in a better frame of mind, but she could not bear to think that he had formed a wrong opinion of her, so she began once more to enter into an explanation. Completely losing his temper, Gerald turned upon her, and struck her a swift, stinging blow on the cheek with the flat of his hand, leaving the imprint of his fingers on her soft flesh; then, grasping her by the shoulder, he pushed her roughly out of the room and locked the door against her.
FOR a while after Gerald had locked the door against his sister, he paced up and down his room in a state of great excitement, his heart filled with anger and bitterness.
It had not occurred to Mr. Willis to explain how he had become aware that Gerald had been in the habit of borrowing Angel's pocket-money when he had taken the boy severely to task upon the subject, and had requested to be informed how the money had been spent. Gerald had hesitated, and finally had said that he really did not know how the money had gone, it had slipped through his fingers somehow; and, on the spur of the moment, he had owned to an insatiable appetite for sweetmeats and ices, artfully insinuating that the latter delicacies were very dear. He had been ashamed of himself for thus prevaricating, for though certainly he had spent a good bit at the "tuck-shop," it was not there that he had parted with most of his money; but he had felt that he never could own the whole truth. He had listened patiently to all his father had had to say, and had promised he would never borrow Angel's money from her again. Mr. Willis had not scrupled to call his son's conduct both dishonest, and dishonourable; and Gerald, though he could but admit the justice of his father's anger, yet blamed Angel for having, as he considered, brought about so much unpleasantness. By-and-by, however, his wrath cooled down somewhat, and he began to feel a little uneasy at the thought of the blow he had given his sister. He had never struck her before; but then, as he quickly reminded himself, she had never before told tales of him; and, after all, he had only slapped her face; it was not his fist that had dealt the blow. Nevertheless, he was perfectly aware that it had been a cowardly, cruel act to strike a girl.
Presently he sat down on the edge of the bed, and fell to wondering how Angel would act now. Would she go and tell their father how she had been served? He hardly thought she would do that. A crowd of memories of different occasions when she had shielded him from the blame and punishments which would have been the inevitable results of his misdeeds but for her interference, surged through his brain, and reminded him how often she had been better to him than he had deserved. And how had he treated her in return? Gerald's slumbering conscience was slow to awaken; still, some knowledge of the ingratitude and cruelty of his behaviour came to him then, as he reflected how he had promised Angel solemnly that she should have her eighteen pence returned to her that day, and she was naturally disappointed that he had not kept his word.
He had reached this point in his meditations when he heard footsteps on the landing; the following second there was a tap upon the door.
"Come in!" he cried, thinking Angel had come back to try and make peace with him; then, remembering he had turned the key, he sprang to his feet, unlocked the door, and opened it wide. It was not Angel, however, whom he found outside, but his father.
"There was one thing I forgot to mention to you, Gerald," Mr. Willis said, "and that was, that Angel did not tell me you were in her debt; I ascertained the fact from Uncle Edward, who overheard you trying to borrow money from her. I believe supper is ready, so you had better come downstairs now, my son." And he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder with a kindly pressure as he spoke.
"Yes, father," Gerald answered. "I must brush my hair and wash my hands, then I shall be ready."
At that moment the supper bell rang, and bidding his son to be quick, Mr. Willis went downstairs.
The boy was quite overwhelmed at the knowledge that he had misjudged his sister, and now deeply repented the hasty blow he had given her in his unbridled passion. He determined to ask her forgiveness the first opportunity that offered, not doubting but that it would be given him willingly and gladly. Angel was so fond of him, he complacently told himself, that she would forgive him anything.
When he entered the dining-room, he found his sister already seated at the supper-table with his father and uncle; he drew a breath of relief as he recognized that she had not told of his treatment of her. He slipped quietly into his accustomed place on the opposite side of the table to Angel. The dining-room was dimly lighted, so only Gerald's guilty eyes noticed that one of the little girl's cheeks was crimson, although Mr. Willis and Mr. Bailey saw that she had been crying, but they were not surprised at that, for they knew how distressed she had been on her brother's account.
Gerald could not keep his gaze away from his sister's face; that crimson check, which looked as though it might be smarting still, was a silent reproach to him. He ate but little; in fact, no one seemed to have an appetite that evening, and it was rather a relief to all when the meal was over.
After supper Mr. Willis retired to his studio to search for a letter he had mislaid; and Mr. Bailey sat down in an easy chair, where he soon fell asleep, being tired after his walk. Then it was that Gerald ventured to approach his sister, who was standing by the open window, gazing out into the shadowy garden. The scent of nicotianas was wafted towards her upon the cool, evening breeze, which fanned her hot cheeks pleasantly. She gave a slight start when she became conscious of her brother's proximity, and would have gone back from the window if he had not laid a detaining hand upon her arm.
"Angel," he said, carefully lowering his voice so as not to disturb Mr. Bailey, "I'm so sorry I hit you, I am indeed! I thought you had been sneaking about me to father, and that riled me; but I know now that it was Uncle Edward. I can't think why he need have interfered!" he concluded in aggrieved tones.
Angel turned her head slowly and faced him. In the dim light he saw that her countenance was quivering with some strong emotion; her eyes were dry now, and there was a strange, hard glitter in them.
"Don't touch me!" she cried sharply, shaking off his hand from her arm. "And I wish you'd leave me alone, and not bother me!"
"But I want to talk to you," he objected, surprised at her curt words, so different from her usually gentle mode of speech. "I'm so very sorry I struck you, Angel," he continued in a coaxing tone; "won't you forgive me?"
"No," she responded, "I won't. Why should I? And I don't believe you're sorry! I wanted to explain to you that I had not been telling tales to father, and you wouldn't listen to me. Do you think I cared for the money, except that I wanted to give Dora Mickle a present? I'm not a sneak, and I'm not a coward like you are, or a—a storyteller!" Angel was trembling with passion. She pointed to her crimson cheek, and her voice trembled with indignation as she added decisively, "No, I won't forgive you, I won't!"
"Oh, come, Angel, don't be nasty," he said soothingly; "it's not like you to be that. You know I did not mean to hurt you. And I'm really very sorry—very!"
"You're not!" she retorted. "You don't care a bit! I wish you'd go away and leave me in peace!"
"I will—only say you forgive me first!"
"No; if I did say so, it would not be true. I don't forgive you. You had no right to strike me, even if I had told tales of you to father. No one but a coward would have done it. Do you think either of the Mickle boys would dare to hit Dinah or Dora? Not they! And they wouldn't want to! But you—"
Angel's voice ceased suddenly. She was actually too enraged to proceed. Gerald was aghast at the resentment in her glance; he looked at her with dismay. Was this his gentle, sweet-tempered sister, who was regarding him with such hard, unforgiving eyes? He was positively struck dumb with amazement.
Suddenly a sob broke from Angel's lips, which sound encouraged Gerald to draw nearer; but she stepped back from him, and bade him keep his distance.
"Don't come nearer to me," she said, with a bitter little laugh that was full of pain; "how do I know but that you mean to strike me again?"
"Oh, Angel, you know better than that!" he remonstrated. "I did it in temper!"
"That's no excuse!"
"No, no, of course not; but do forgive me, and let us be friends again. We never quarrelled like this before!"
"Well, it's not my fault that we've quarrelled now," she reminded him significantly.
This perverse, stubborn Angel was not like his loving little sister at all. He looked at her with pleading blue eyes, really anxious to bring about a reconciliation.
"Let us kiss and be friends," he said, with his winning smile. "Come, Angel, I know you mean to forgive me in the end!"
She deigned no reply, but turning abruptly away, left the room, whilst he followed. When, however, he saw she was going to the studio, he retraced his steps, and threw himself into a chair not far from the one in which Mr. Bailey still slept. Suddenly his uncle gave a loud snore, and awoke, exclaiming—
"Dear me, I think I must have been asleep!"
Ordinarily such a remark would have made Gerald laugh, but he now vouchsafed no reply. He considered Mr. Bailey had done him an ill-turn that day, and he was disinclined to converse with him.
"Where is Angel?" Mr. Bailey asked, looking around, and missing the little girl.
"In the studio with father," was the brief response.
"Poor child, poor child! I was sorry to see her sad eyes and tear-stained face at supper. Ah, Gerald, there are very few boys who have such a loving little sister as you have!"
Gerald muttered something unintelligible; perhaps he thought he had ill repaid Angel for her love. Seeing he did not wish to talk, Mr. Bailey took up a newspaper and commenced to read. Presently Angel returned to bid her uncle good-night. He kissed her with great affection, and after saying good-night, added his usual "God bless you, child!" The little girl scarcely heeded the words this evening, so preoccupied was she with her own thoughts. She neither spoke to nor glanced at Gerald, who, however, got up and followed her out of the room and upstairs.
"Aren't you going to say good-night to me, Angel?" he asked reproachfully.
She turned as she opened the bedroom door and looked at him as she replied coldly—
"Oh yes! Good-night, Gerald."
"Say you forgive me," he pleaded; "do, dear!"
But she shook her head decidedly, and, entering her room, shut the door in his face. He stood outside for a few minutes, thinking she would perhaps come out presently and make friends with him; but as the door remained closed, he went away, much disturbed in mind at his sister's conduct.
Angel, having quickly undressed and said her prayers, which were merely vain repetitions that night, jumped into bed, and lay thinking gloomily of the events of the last few hours. She recalled the look of passion she had seen on her brother's face when he had struck her, and told herself she never, never could forgive him that blow. She was certain there was not the least spark of affection in his heart for her. He only treated her well when he wanted her to do something for him. He did not really love her. All this she kept repeating to herself over and over again; and her anger against him did not soften into better or kinder feelings to-night, on the contrary, she nursed the resentment which the blow he had struck her had planted in her heart, and exaggerated every little failing of his which she had regarded as trifling before.
How slowly the time crept on as she lay awake. She heard Mrs. Vallance and Polly ascending the back stairs, and a short while later her father and uncle bade each other good-night on the landing outside her door. The hall clock struck eleven!—twelve!—and still Angel tossed restlessly about, her mind too disordered to admit of her sleeping. A feeling of utter desolation crept over her as she thought that, in all probability, she was the only member of the household who was awake; a sense of intense loneliness occupied her sore heart; she found no consolation in prayer as she usually did, not then realizing, poor child, that her unforgiving spirit stood between her and God; and, at last, she indulged in a fit of weeping, and finally sobbed herself to sleep.
Meanwhile, Gerald was lying awake too, thinking uneasily of his quarrel with his sister. Never had he known her so apparently hard-hearted before; certainly never had he begged for her forgiveness in vain until to-night. "It was cruel and wicked of me to hit her," the boy acknowledged to himself, "but she might have believed I was speaking the truth when I told her I was sorry. I might have known she wouldn't have sneaked to father about me. She was never a tell-tale. Oh, dear, how frightened I was when father asked me what I had been doing with my money! I suppose it was wrong to deceive him, but what could I do? I did hope to be able to pay Angel that eighteen pence to-day. If only I had won that bet! I've half a mind not to bet any more; but then, I must pay Hope what I owe him, and I must get the money somehow."
Gerald sighed, and wished regretfully he had never been tempted to bet at all, and what with the thought of his quarrel with his sister and his other difficulties, he was quite as long in getting to sleep as Angel was, so that it was past midnight before either of the young people at Haresdown House obtained any rest that night.
SUNDAY morning dawned with brilliant sunshine, and promised to be a perfect summer's day. Angel arose with a bad headache, no doubt caused by her fit of violent weeping the preceding night; and she was so pale and heavy-eyed when she appeared at the breakfast-table, that her father told her she had better remain at home and rest, instead of going to church. She was glad to do this, and as soon as she was alone, fetched her Bible, and settled herself comfortably on the sofa in the dining-room.
"How nice it is that father is strong enough to walk up Haresdown hill," Angel thought as she opened her Bible at a venture, and commenced to read. She found it very difficult to prevent her mind straying from the sacred volume at first to other matters; but presently her attention was chained.
"And grieve not the Holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto the day of redemption."
"Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put away from you, with all malice;"
"And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
Angel shut her Bible and sighed deeply as she pondered over these verses. She wondered if her bitterness and wrath last night had grieved the Holy Spirit of God. She was not feeling nearly so much incensed against her brother to-day; the marks of his fingers on her cheek had died out, and her resentment against him was slowly dying out too. She was beginning to see that though her indignation had been only just and natural, her refusal of forgiveness, when he had been really repentant, had been very wrong. If Gerald had been unkind to her, she had been unkind to him. She had scarcely spoken to him this morning, and had deliberately ignored and refrained from responding to the few hesitating remarks he had ventured to address to her. How wicked she had been! No wonder she had been so dreadfully unhappy.
Whilst she was meditating thus, Mrs. Vallance knocked at the door, and entering, inquired how she was.
"Oh, I think my headache's better," Angel answered. "Are you very busy, Mrs. Vallance?"
"No, miss. Polly put the bedrooms in order before she started for church, and there's only cold meat for dinner," was the reply. "I was never in a house where there was less work to be done on Sundays."
"Uncle Edward says he likes Sunday to be a day of rest for every one. Do sit down and talk to me for a little while."
Mrs. Vallance willingly complied. She was a good-hearted woman, and she and Angel often enjoyed a chat together.
"I know what's given you such a bad headache, my dear," the housekeeper said shrewdly; "twas the fuss you had with Master Gerald last night."
"Yes," the little girl acknowledged, flushing, and looking confused. "But how did you know?" she inquired, with some anxiety.
"I was standing at the top of the back stairs listening to your raised voices, when suddenly I saw Master Gerald push you out of his room, and lock the door against you. Haven't you and he made up your quarrel yet?"
"No," Angel responded, relieved that Mrs. Vallance apparently was unaware of all that had occurred. "Gerald wanted me to be friends with him last night, but I wouldn't. He—he served me very badly, I think."
"I dare say he did, but I'm sure he was sorry afterwards. He's thoughtless and selfish, perhaps, but I don't like to hear of your bearing malice in heart, Miss Angel, dear. It's unchristian-like, that's what it is."
"Yes," Angel sighed, "I know, I know!"
"'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,'" Mrs. Vallance quoted. "That's a verse from the Bible we all ought to remember."
"I used not to be so unforgiving," Angel said; "but then Gerald never treated me before as he did last night. I—I can't tell you about it, Mrs. Vallance; but I think if you knew all, you would say he had behaved very badly."
"I have no doubt I should; still, however wrong he was, don't let him believe his sister has turned against him. You must be patient with him. I know you're that, as a rule, but don't let him tire you out. Didn't you tell me once that you had promised your mother to be loving and patient with him?"
"Yes; but I forgot that last night," Angel admitted. "I don't know how it was, but I never felt so wicked before. I couldn't pray—not properly."
"No one can pray properly when angry, Miss Angel."
There was a long pause, which Mrs. Vallance at length broke by saying thoughtfully, "I don't think I ever told you that I lived in service with Miss Goodwin once, did I?"
"No," the little girl replied, rather astonished at this sudden change in the conversation; "was that long ago?"
"Yes, miss. I was a slip of a girl of sixteen when I first went to Myrtle Villa. Miss Goodwin's hair wasn't white at that time, nor her face wrinkled as it is now; but even then her youth had long passed. She's very old, you know, for all she's so quick in her movements, and clear in her intellect in most ways, except that she's forgotten her age, and seems to have lost count of the flight of time. Well, as I was saying, I was only sixteen when I commenced to earn my living, and my mother was so pleased to get me such a good place, for Miss Goodwin was always counted a rare hand for training servants, having been accustomed to have a great many in her young days. Yes," Mrs. Vallance nodded, as Angel's face expressed her surprise, "she was brought up as a rich man's daughter, but after her father's death her brother—an only brother he was—squandered all his money, and most of hers too. Then it was she came to Myrtle Villa to live, and ten years later I went there as maid-of-all-work. I knew Miss Goodwin's brother had always been a worry and trouble to her, and that after spending his fortune he had entered the army as a private, so of course I never mentioned his name to her until one day she spoke of him to me, and told me she had had a letter from some one in India telling her he was dead. What astonished me was that she didn't seem to be grieving, although I knew she had been very fond of him, in spite of his bad ways. 'Oh, ma'am!' I cried, not knowing what to say. 'Is he really dead? Perhaps there is some mistake.' 'Oh no!' she said. 'I will read you the letter.' And so she did. It had been written by an army chaplain; I forget a great deal of what was in it, but I shall always remember one part, which spoke of a message the dying man had sent to Miss Goodwin, and the message was this: 'Tell my sister that the remembrance of her love has taught me to understand the love of God. If she had not forgiven me, I do not believe I could have thought it possible God would.' It was that message which had brought a joyful look into Miss Goodwin's face, and prevented her grieving—the certainty that her love had been stronger than evil, for he had been a bad man, my dear Miss Angel; his sister knew that well, but she had always loved him, and prayed for him, and had patience with him, and though the seas had divided them when he lay dying, yet it had been her influence that had led him to repent and turn to Jesus. The chaplain wrote that John Goodwin had died a humble, repentant Christian, and, as my dear mistress said to me, she had no cause to feel ashamed of him any more. It's an old tale now, my dear, and I've only told it to you to show you how we ought to forgive those who trespass against us. Sometimes it's very difficult, just because those who have injured us are so very dear to us; we feel on that account they ought to have treated us better; but, however that may be, we should never cease to love and forgive."
"Oh, poor Miss Goodwin!" Angel cried, her eyes full of tears. "Did her brother serve her very, very badly, Mrs. Vallance?"
"Yes, miss, I'm bound to admit that he did. He not only spent most of her money—you know she has as much as she can do to make both ends meet, and I really think took up gardening herself because she couldn't afford to pay for a gardener—but he deceived her in many ways, and never showed the least consideration for her wishes."
"And she forgave him all?"
"Yes, Miss Angel, that I am sure she did."
"I think I understand why you have told me this." Angel said thoughtfully; "but I am afraid I can never be so good as Miss Goodwin."
"She is good," Mrs. Vallance agreed heartily. "I often say I never knew any one like her. I lived with her for more than ten years, and all that time, though I dare say I continually tried her, for I was a thoughtless girl, she never said an unkind word to me; and when she used to reprove me, would do it so gently that it used to make me a great deal more sorry than if she'd spoken crossly. When I left her it was to be married, and all through my married life she was my best friend; then my poor husband died, and, having no children, I thought I'd go into service again, and Miss Goodwin, hearing your uncle wanted a housekeeper, advised me to offer for the post. I'd have liked to have gone back to live with my dear old mistress, but the servant she has suits her, and—well, here I am, and here I hope to remain, Miss Angel."
"Oh, I hope so!" the little girl said earnestly.
"Now it's about time I set about laying the dinner-cloth," Mrs. Vallance remarked briskly, for the folks will soon be out of church.
Angel watched the housekeeper's trim, black-gowned figure moving quietly in and out of the room, and pondered over the story she had heard from her lips. How thankful Miss Goodwin must be that her love had never failed her brother.
"I do believe you are feeling much better, are you not, Miss Angel?" asked Mrs. Vallance, as she glanced at the little girl's thoughtful face.
"Yes, my headache is nearly gone," Angel replied, with a smile.
She sprang up from the sofa as she spoke, and, taking up her Bible, ran upstairs to her own room, where she brushed her ruffled hair, and then stood at the open window, from which she had a view of the road from the church down the slope of the hill. She meant, at the first sight of her own people, to hasten to the garden gate to be in readiness to greet them with a brighter countenance than she had shown them when they had set out for church two hours before.
Then she remembered that she had not asked God's pardon for the wicked, resentful temper she had been indulging in, and, sinking on her knees by the window-sill, she covered her face with her hands and prayed earnestly. When she rose from her knees she saw a stream of people descending the hill, and by-and-by was able to distinguish the forms of those she knew. She noticed that her father and uncle had joined Mr. and Mrs. Mickle, and that Gerald was following behind with the Mickle children. She changed her mind about going to the gate, and determined to remain where she was, for she was shy about answering the good-natured, anxious questions she knew would be put to her concerning her headache if she encountered her friends just then.
So she drew back from the window, and allowed the Mickles time to say good-bye at the gate before she peeped out again; presently, hearing footsteps on the gravel path outside, she glanced out, and saw her father.
"Well, Angel, how's the headache?" he asked, as she appeared in sight. "Better, eh?"
"Yes, father, thank you," she answered, "much better."
"That's right. We came down the hill with the Mickles. Uncle Edward wanted them all to come in, but they thought it too near dinner-time. Yes, you are certainly looking better—a little pale still, but you make a charming picture, standing there framed in roses and honeysuckle!"
She laughed, and, leaning her arms upon the window-sill continued to converse with him. He saw she was her usual cheerful self again, and was pleased that the shadow had gone from her face; he had guessed her pain had been as much mental as physical.
"Uncle Edward and Gerald have gone a short distance down the hill with the Mickles," he informed her. "Come out into the garden with me, Angel; or, do you think the sun will be too hot for you? I am considering your poor head, my dear."
"Oh, my head is all right now," she assured him.
She put on a shady hat, and running downstairs joined Mr. Willis, who had gone around to the front door to meet her. They strolled about the garden, looking at the flowers, until Mr. Bailey and Gerald returned. The latter glanced at Angel rather dubiously; but his face brightened instantly when he met her eyes.
"I'm so glad your headache is gone!" he exclaimed heartily. "It is gone, isn't it?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"We have had many inquiries to answer about you, Angel," Mr. Bailey said. "Mrs. Mickle was much concerned to hear you were not well, and suggested several remedies for headache, which I see I need not give you now. You are looking almost yourself again."
Before going into the house to dinner, Angel seized an opportunity to draw her brother aside out of hearing of the others, and said earnestly: "Gerald, will you forgive me for being so unkind and ill-tempered last night? I know you didn't mean to hurt me, and—and—"
"Oh, Angel," the boy interposed, "it only served me right! It was very wrong of me to hit you. It was cowardly, and I don't wonder you were so angry. I'll never do it again—never! I feel so ashamed about it. You do forgive me, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed I do! I didn't last night, and—oh, I was so unhappy—simply wretched!"
"I was wretched too," Gerald admitted. "I knew I had behaved badly, and it was dreadful to think you wouldn't make friends with me. But it's all right now, isn't it?"
Angel nodded. The rest of the Sunday passed peacefully and happily, the sister and brother being on the best of terms with each other. They spent the afternoon together in the garden, and in the evening went to church with their father and uncle. Gerald had a knack of dismissing his troubles from his mind if they were not directly pressing upon him; and Angel, now that she was at peace with her brother, was perfectly happy once more.
The little girl made no mention of the story she had heard from Mrs. Vallance, concerning Miss Goodwin's brother, to any one; but she pondered over it a great deal, and her liking for the old lady deepened into reverent affection as she thought of the trouble her brother must have been to her, and how her patient love had triumphed in the end.
ANGEL was enabled to give Dora Mickle a birthday present after all, for, knowing his little daughter's penniless condition, Mr. Willis presented her with half-a-crown as she was starting for school on Monday morning, in addition to her regular pocket-money.
"Remember, my dear," he said gravely, and Gerald, who was standing near, heard his words, "this is for yourself. There is to be no more lending. I hope you understand that?"
"Yes, father," she answered. "Thank you so much. If I am rather late home from school this morning, you will know I am in the town buying a present for Dora Mickle."
Accordingly, when Angel returned to Haresdown House to dinner, she exhibited a white and gold photograph frame, which she had purchased for her little friend.
"I asked Dinah what she thought Dora would like," she explained, "and she suggested my buying this frame, because Dora admired it the other day—it was in the shop window, you know."
"It is very pretty," Mr. Willis said. "By the way, I have had a note from Mrs. Mickle, asking you and Gerald to tea to-morrow. Am I to accept the invitation for you?"
"Oh, please, father!" both children answered in a breath.
Gerald had said nothing further about making Dora a present himself; his sister rightly guessed that he had no money, and she generously suggested that the photograph frame should be presented to Dora in his name as well as hers. But Gerald would not hear of this. He stoutly negatived the idea, refusing to entertain it for a moment.
It was a merry, happy party that assembled in the Mickles' back garden on the following afternoon to partake of tea, and strawberries and cream, not to mention other dainties, including Dora's birthday cake. The principal charm of the whole affair lay in having it out of doors. Dora, in the arbour at the far end of the garden, with her mother at her side, poured out tea, whilst the boys did the waiting, and the little girls of the party, amongst whom were several of Dora's school-fellows, sat on a long form, sheltered from the hot sunshine by a row of kidney beans. Gerald made himself very useful in assisting the Mickle boys, who had good-naturedly volunteered to help entertain their little sister's guests, thus winning Dora's approval, and doing much to obliterate the not altogether favourable opinion she had previously formed of him. She had not wanted to invite him, and Gerald little guessed that Mrs. Mickle had found some difficulty in persuading her to include him in her party, but now she was really glad she had done so.
The white and gold frame had been duly presented, and Dora had expressed herself delighted with it, and had declared her intention of putting her mother's photograph in it, and giving it a prominent position on her bedroom wall. She had received several presents, including a dark tabby Persian kitten from Dinah, which had already been named "Ruffy" by its proud mistress. Only Angel, besides the members of the Mickle household, had known that the kitten had been coming, and great had been every one's anxiety lest it should not have reached Wreyford by Dora's birthday, for it had been ordered from a breeder of Persian cats in London; but Ruffy had come several days before it had been expected, and consequently had been kept safely locked up in an outhouse until the proper time for its appearance in public had arrived. How often Dora had been on the point of discovering the secret of the outhouse! And yet she had never had the faintest suspicion why the door was locked against her, supposing the boys had done it for some reason or other. After tea the children played games, and had a thoroughly enjoyable time. Gilbert joined his mother in the arbour by-and-by. He was looking very cheerful and happy to-day, for in trying to amuse his little sister's friends he had forgotten his own grievances; indeed, it had seemed lately that his temper had improved, and he was more contented altogether. He had painted Dora a small picture of a pretty spot near the river, which she had once admired in his hearing—a mossy bank with a hawthorn tree in full bloom—and her pleasure had greatly gratified him, whilst his father had added to his happiness by declaring the sketch remarkably well done.
As he seated himself opposite to his mother on one of the benches which served as seats in the arbour, she looked at him with a smile as she said, "Tired, Gilbert?"
"A little. They're playing 'Last Touch' now, but that's not much in my line. I'm rather too much handicapped for a game of that kind."
She glanced at him in surprise, for he spoke quite cheerfully, with a touch of humour in his tone, and without his usual bitterness.
"So I thought I'd come and talk to you a bit, mother," he added, after a brief pause; "I consider I've earned a rest."
"Yes," she agreed, "I'm sure you have. I'm glad Dora consented to inviting Gerald Willis; he is very amusing, is he not? Dora did not want to ask him, because she said he 'put upon' Angel, as she expressed it; but I'm sure he seems a very nice boy."
"He would be much nicer if only Reginald Hope would let him alone."
"He is very good friends with Tom now?"
"Oh yes, and always would be if Hope did not come between them. Tom can't bear Hope, and he's always trying to get Gerald to break with him; then, naturally, Gerald thinks Tom is prejudiced against Hope."
"I see!"
Mrs. Mickle watched Gerald thoughtfully. His face was flushed with exercise, his blue eyes sparkled with excitement, and his laugh rang out merrily every now and again. He appeared the life of the party.
"It's a pity he doesn't go in for sports more at school," Gilbert remarked, following his mother's glance, "instead of spending his time loafing about with Hope and his crew. Idleness is sure to lead a fellow into mischief."
At that moment the game came to an end by mutual consent, every one being hot and tired. The little girls strolled down to the river, which flowed at the bottom of the garden, and Tom, followed by Gerald, joined Mrs. Mickle and Gilbert in the arbour.
"There's plenty of room," Mrs. Mickle said smilingly, as Gerald stood hesitating at the entrance.
She moved her skirts nearer to her as she spoke, and pointed to the space by her side, which the boy immediately appropriated, whilst Tom sat down opposite with his brother.
Conversation flowed easily. Gerald found Mrs. Mickle a very interesting companion; she appeared to know all that went on at the Grammar School, and surprised him by her acquaintance with several trivial incidents which had occurred during the term. Evidently she was the confidante of both her sons.
The following Saturday a cricket match was to take place between the first eleven of the Grammar School and an eleven from a neighbouring town. There would doubtless be a great many onlookers and Mrs. Mickle expressed her intention of being present.
"I shall expect you boys to come and talk to me, and explain how the game is going," she told them. "You'll bring Angel, won't you, Gerald?"
Gerald looked rather taken aback at this, for he had had no such intention, thinking that if he took Angel to watch the cricket match he would have to devote his time to her instead of being able to spend it with his boon companions; so he made answer that his sister did not understand the game of cricket, and he did not know if she would care about it. The truth was, he did not mean to consider or consult his sister in the matter at all.
Mrs. Mickle could not guess what was passing through his mind; she looked at him, evidently rather puzzled, then said—
"Oh, but I'm sure Angel will like to watch the match. You must bring her with you, for Dinah and Dora will be there, and—"
"Oh yes!" Gerald interposed quickly, his countenance suddenly brightening as he reflected that if the Mickle girls were amongst the onlookers he would be able to leave his sister with them, and therefore she would not be in his way at all. "Oh, yes! I dare say Angel will enjoy it!"
Gilbert and Tom exchanged amused glances at Gerald's sudden change of tone. The former remarked—
"I don't want to miss my painting lesson next Saturday, but this will be the great match of the season, and I shouldn't like to miss that either."
"You must ask Mr. Willis to excuse your absence on Saturday afternoon," Mrs. Mickle said; "perhaps he will like to see the match too."
"I dare say he will!" Gerald cried eagerly, "And Uncle Edward! He's very interested in cricket. If he and father go to watch the match they're certain to take Angel with them."
"And you will be free to do as you please," Tom exclaimed involuntarily.
There was a short, awkward pause. Gerald grew crimson with annoyance and mortification. He was very vexed with Tom for so plainly reading his thoughts, and darted an angry look at him, which was greeted with a teasing smile.
"How fast the summer term is passing!" Mrs. Mickle exclaimed presently, wisely ignoring her younger son's remark. "Why, we shall soon have the holidays here!"
"Another month before that, mother," Gilbert reminded her. "Look! Here comes father. And Mr. Willis with him."
"Father said perhaps he'd come to fetch us," Gerald explained. "I hope it is not quite time for us to go yet."
Mrs. Mickle rose, and went to meet the newcomers. The boys now joined the girls, and suggested another game, leaving the arbour for the use of their elders. Very pleasantly the remainder of the evening slipped away, and the little party broke up regretfully at last.
"Having tea out of doors is lovely," Angel remarked on her homeward way; "it's ever so much nicer than in the house isn't it, Gerald?"
"Rather!" her brother responded heartily. "I had a spider in my tea," he added, "but I didn't mind that."
Mr. Willis laughed amusedly. They were now passing Myrtle Villa, and Miss Goodwin's piping voice addressed them from the other side of the sweetbriar hedge.
"Has dear little Dora's tea-party been a success?" she asked. "You see, children, I know where you've been. I saw your father on his way to fetch you."
"It has been a very great success," Angel replied; "we have had such a happy time! I saw your present to Dora, Miss Goodwin.—It is a beautiful little pincushion made of velvet, and embroidered in silks," she explained, turning to her father.
"I embroidered it myself," the old lady said, her face beaming with smiles. "It pleased the child! I am to drink tea with the Mickles to-morrow, and Dora will show me all her treasures. Ah, Gerald, you've not been to see me for a long while. Do come in one day soon. Well, good-night, good-night."
Mr. Willis and his children passed on, whilst Miss Goodwin, who had only been waiting for them, now went into the house.
"What a dear old soul she is," Angel said; "the Mickles are all so fond of her. Dora wanted to invite her to the tea-party to-day, but Mrs. Mickle thought it would be too much excitement for her."
"I should think so," Mr. Willis replied; "you were rather noisy. Poor Miss Goodwin would have been quite bewildered if she had heard your tongues chattering."
As they neared their destination they were startled by the cries of a dog, evidently in pain, and a minute later came upon a scene which made Angel's tender heart throb with mingled indignation and pity. A big boy was holding a poor little terrier by the collar, and beating it most unmercifully with a great stick.
The next moment Mr. Willis had sprung to the rescue, and wrenched the weapon from the boy's hand, and smashed it in two pieces, which he flung into the hedge.
"You coward!" he exclaimed, clutching the boy by the collar and shaking him, whilst the dog, suddenly released, ran howling piteously down the road in the direction of the town. "How would you like to be thrashed as—"
He paused in intense astonishment as he recognized the scared face the boy turned towards him.
It was Reginald Hope. He had been fishing in the clay pits, and had, on his way home, encountered a favourite dog of his father's. The little animal, overjoyed at the meeting, had jumped against his young master, and had unfortunately knocked the pickle bottle he had been carrying, and which had contained a few prettily marked fish, out of his hand. Enraged beyond measure, Reginald had cut a stick from the hedge with his pocket-knife, and seizing the dog, was giving it a heavy thrashing when he was suddenly stopped by Mr. Willis.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Reginald cried, wriggling to get free in vain.
"Not till I've had a few words with you," Mr. Willis replied firmly. "Wicked boy, to thrash a poor dog so cruelly!"
"Aggravating beast!" Reginald exclaimed vindictively. "Look at that smashed bottle, and those fish which I had trouble enough to catch! The dog belongs to us, and I can do as I like to it. Let me go, Mr. Willis."
But Mr. Willis would not do that until he had reproved him sharply for the cruelty and cowardice of his behaviour; and Reginald was obliged to listen to him, whilst Angel and Gerald stood by, the former as indignant as her father, and the latter no less so really, though he was afraid to show what he felt.
"I hope you will never treat any animal so viciously again," Mr. Willis said in conclusion. "I am sure your father would be pained if he knew how you had served his pet."
"You will not tell him?" Reginald cried involuntarily.
"Not if you will promise never to thrash the dog so cruelly again."
"Oh, I promise that."
"Very well. I hope you will keep your word. Now I will let you go."
Mr. Willis released his hold of the boy, who picked up his fishing-rod, which he had flung on one side, and, without even glancing at Gerald, hurried away. The children and their father looked after him as he slunk down the road, the latter's countenance very grave.
"Oh, Gerald!" cried Angel, "how can you be friendly with a boy like that? How dreadfully he thrashed that poor dog! He must be very, very hard-hearted!"
"Perhaps he didn't mean to hurt it," Gerald replied, feeling he was called upon to make some sort of excuse for his friend.
"What nonsense, Gerald!" exclaimed his father sharply. "He did mean to hurt it! Children are often cruel when they are very young, because they do not understand the nature of pain; but Reginald Hope is a big boy, and he knew quite well the agony he was inflicting. Come, let us get home."
Mr. Willis looked upset. Cruelty to even the least of God's creatures was intolerable to him. When they reached the entrance to the grounds of Haresdown House, he paused and addressed Gerald again—
"My boy," he said gravely, "I shall put an end to your friendship with young Hope."
"Father!" Gerald burst forth in dismay, "you don't mean it?"
"I don't require you to break with him altogether," Mr. Willis proceeded to explain, "or say you are not to speak to him, but I forbid you to spend your spare time with him as you have done hitherto. Surely there are boys at the Grammar School more fitting to be your companions than Reginald Hope? I cannot imagine my son on a level with him. We should be careful in our choice of friends, remembering they are bound to influence us for good or evil. You need not avoid young Hope altogether, but I cannot allow you to be his constant companion."
Gerald made no response. He knew how difficult it would be for him to break off this friendship, and he foresaw much unpleasantness for himself if he did so. He shivered with apprehension as he remembered his indebtedness to Reginald Hope; if only he had not owed him money he would have gladly obeyed his father, and dissolved his connexion with him altogether. Poor Gerald's thoughts were very uneasy during the rest of the evening. He had enjoyed Dora Mickle's tea-party as much as any one, but, as generally happened now when he had forgotten his worries for the time, Reginald Hope had crossed his path, and the mere sight of him had been sufficient to remind him of the reality of them.