"I SAY, Willis, I want a few words with you."
Gerald, who was lingering in the playground after morning school, talking to Tom Mickle, started when thus addressed by Reginald Hope, and glanced at him apprehensively, for he had not seen him to speak to for several days, and did not know if he resented Mr. Willis' interference with his actions on the preceding Tuesday evening or not.
"All right!" Gerald responded quickly, endeavouring not to show the uneasiness he felt. "We've been talking of the cricket match. I hope it will be fine weather to-morrow. Mickle thinks we shall rain."
"Don't be too sure about it," Reginald said, with a laugh. "You're always sanguine, Mickle. I'm ready to face a beating."
"So am I," Tom replied good-humouredly; "so are we all, I expect; but I hope to see our eleven win, nevertheless!"
Another boy came up at that moment and engaged his attention; and Reginald, turning to Gerald, remarked pleasantly—
"If you're going home now, I'll walk a little way with you."
"Oh, very well," was the response, in rather an ungracious tone.
Quitting the playground by the back entrance, they soon left the lane for the main street. Very few words were spoken by either till they were out of the town; but when they reached the bridge the elder boy suggested they should sit down and hold their conversation there, which they accordingly did.
"You've been avoiding me these last few days," Reginald commenced, "and of course I know why. You're afraid I'm offended at what your father said to me the other night. It was very interfering of him, but you couldn't help it. I'm sorry for you, Willis, for you must have to walk a pretty straight path if he's always like that. He's awfully strict, isn't he?"
"Oh no, no! But he hates to see any one unkind. I can't think how you could have beaten your dog so cruelly."
"Well, I lost my temper, you know, that's how it was. I'm a little heavy-handed when I'm in a passion. But you needn't think that I bear malice in heart; I daresay your father was right enough, looking at the matter from his point of view. I'm not resentful against him, anyway." Then, seeing that Gerald was not so much impressed with his magnanimous spirit as he had anticipated he would be, he determined to let the subject drop, and proceeded: "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. What do you really think about the cricket match to-morrow? Shall we win?"
"How can I tell? I only know Tom Mickle says he believes we shall."
"Oh, Tom Mickle!" Reginald exclaimed disparagingly. "Well, of course, he may be right, and, anyway, I suppose you'll pin your faith upon him, eh? I'm rather inclined to back the other eleven. I'll bet you half-a-crown that the Grammar School gets a licking. What do you say to that?"
"I don't think I'll bet," Gerald responded, shaking his head. "What's the use? If I lose I shan't have the money to pay."
"Oh, nonsense! Besides, very likely you'll win. After all, Tom Mickle's pretty shrewd, and he knows as much about cricket as any boy in the school, although he's not in the first eleven himself yet. I'll be bound to say he's backing the Grammar School himself."
"He doesn't bet."
"Not that you know of."
"I'm certain he doesn't. He told me he never meant to. He thinks it wrong."
"Well, you don't think it's wrong, I suppose?"
"I don't think it's right — exactly," was the evasive response. "I—I've been thinking a great deal about it lately, and I don't see the good of going on with it. I've never made much by betting; I've always lost more than I've won."
"You've been unlucky, there's no doubt of that, but some people make fortunes by betting, I've heard. You ought to try to win back some of what you've lost, if only to pay me. Oh, I say, here comes Miss Goodwin! What a nuisance!"
Gerald turned his head, and saw the little lady coming towards them from the direction of the town; she lifted the skirt of her gown above the dust with one hand, whilst with the other she held a large green umbrella over her head as a protection from the too fierce sunshine.
"What an oddity she is," whispered Reginald, laughing. "Look at her white stockings and elastic-side boots! Well, I'm off, Willis, for she's sure to stop, and I don't want to be kept about by the old gossip. I'll see you after school this afternoon; and, meanwhile, think over what I've been saying. I may be able to put you up to a good thing." And with a knowing wink he jumped off the bridge just as Miss Goodwin reached it.
Reginald Hope took no notice of the old lady beyond a short nod as he passed her; but Gerald, ashamed of the elder boy's rudeness, lifted his cap as she approached, and wished her good morning very politely.
"Good morning!" she said, a bright smile lighting up her withered countenance and shining in her clear blue eyes; then, glancing after Reginald Hope's retreating figure, she murmured, "Dear, dear! So young, and so ungallant!" She turned her attention to Gerald again. "I am going home; perhaps you will walk with me? Yes. Strange that you and Reginald Hope should be such friends!"
"Why?" Gerald could not refrain from asking.
"Because he lacks that thoughtfulness for others which always characterises one who is a gentleman at heart," she replied, with prompt decision.
Her companion was silenced, recognizing the truth of this statement. He walked along by her side, looking rather depressed, whilst she turned the conversation into other channels, trying in vain to interest him; at last, seeing he was hardly listening to her, she startled him by asking abruptly—
"What is on your mind, my dear boy?"
"On my mind!" he stammered; "nothing—nothing!"
She shook her head, and there was a shrewd look in the eyes which scanned his face.
"I wish you'd tell me," she persisted, "for perhaps I could help you."
"You, Miss Goodwin!" he exclaimed, somewhat amused at the idea. "Oh no, I am sure you could not."
"You can't tell that. Once I had a brother of my own; when he was about your age he was very like you in appearance, and sometimes you remind me of him in other respects. Yes! You are a little impatient of control; you like your own way; and often, when you are with Angel, you treat her as my brother used to treat me—not unkindly, but a little indifferently, without the consideration which, I think, a sister should receive. You will excuse my remarking this, my dear; I do so because perhaps you have never thought of it, and it may be a kindness to point it out—it would have been a kindness, I believe, if any one had pointed it out to my brother when he was a boy."
She spoke in a gentle musing tone, as though her mind had travelled far back into the past. It was impossible for Gerald to be annoyed, for her manner was so kind; but he flushed guiltily at her mention of his sister.
"Is your brother dead, Miss Goodwin?" he inquired, his curiosity aroused.
"Oh yes, he died—I forget when!" A doubtful expression crossed the old face, which suddenly changed to a look of gladness. "He thought of me at the last," she said softly, "and he died a Christian. That was what I had prayed for—that he might find Jesus—that was my heart's desire, which God gave me in His own good time. And so, Gerald, having had a brother myself, and remembering his boyhood so plainly—oh, so plainly!—I do not forget the many temptations and troubles that beset every boy's life, and I can see you are worried about something. I want to ask you if there's anything you're keeping from your father that ought to be told? If so, tell him, my dear, tell him."
Gerald made no reply, and the old lady said no more; but he thought over all she had said after he had parted from her outside Myrtle Villa, and wished he could pluck up sufficient courage to tell his father of his indebtedness to Reginald Hope; but he shrank from the confession which he knew must follow.
"Father's so down on people who bet and gamble," he thought miserably; "he was angry enough when he found out I'd had Angel's money, and he'd be angrier still if he knew how I spent it. Hope will have to wait until I can save enough out of my pocket-money to pay him."
But this Reginald Hope was not willing to do. When he found that Gerald really hesitated to bet upon the result of the cricket match, he lost his temper, and for the first time allowed his victim a glimpse of him in his true colours. He declared he wanted his money, that he would have it, and threatened if he was not paid shortly, to apply to Mr. Willis. Gerald did not pause to consider whether Reginald would really take this plan of action or not; he was far too horrified at the idea to be in a fit state to view the matter with commonsense; and in sheer desperation made several bets with different boys in hopes of gaining money, and thereby being enabled to get out of debt. If the Grammar School won the cricket match he would be in a position to pay all he owed; if not—but he dared not contemplate that contingency.
There were many visitors to watch the match on Saturday afternoon, for the weather was beautifully fine, and the field presented quite a gay scene. The Mickles were present, and Angel with her father and uncle; and they all seemed so happy and free from care, that Gerald felt as though he was out in the cold. They could not tell he was miserable; and the nervousness of his manner they ascribed to a very natural anxiety as to the result of the game. At first it looked as though the Grammar School boys would beat their opponents easily, and Gerald began to think that all would be well; but when their best batsman, in whom their highest hopes were centred, was caught out before he had made half a dozen runs, the unhappy boy's spirits fell and never rose again, for even Tom Mickle was obliged to admit before long that the Grammar School "hadn't a look in," as he expressed it.
The game was over at last, the strangers being the victors. Gerald was simply stunned, realizing that he was now in a worse position than ever. Reginald Hope came up behind him as he stood staring blankly at the deserted wickets with unseeing eyes, listening to the cheering, and touched him on the shoulder. Gerald turned around with a start, and to his intense relief noticed that the other's face was beaming with satisfaction.
"So we're beaten," Gerald said; "it's an awful blow!"
"Not to me," Reginald replied, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper; "I've made a good thing of it to-day. I backed our visitors."
"I've lost!" Gerald exclaimed bitterly. "I don't know what I shall do. I haven't a penny to pay any one."
"Ask your father to come to the rescue. Get a draw from him. I see he's here! Or, how about your uncle?"
"That won't do."
Reginald stood thoughtfully whistling under his breath. Perhaps his conscience pricked him at the sight of his companion's dejected appearance, for after hesitating a few minutes, he put his hand in his pocket and drew out half a sovereign.
"I can lend you that if it's any good to you," he said, "and you can pay me at some future day. I'm flush of money at present, wonderful to say."
Gerald was quite overcome with gratitude. After all, Hope was really a good-natured fellow. He accepted the loan with a profusion of thanks, and immediately went and paid his debts; after which he joined his own people, and was so merry and light-hearted, that his uncle remarked one would have thought the Grammar School had won the match.
Later in the evening, when Gerald found himself alone with Mr. Bailey, he asked him if he had known Miss Goodwin's brother.
"Why, yes," was the response. "I remember him as a young man when I was a boy. A fine, handsome fellow he was too, but no good—no good!"
"How was that, Uncle Edward?"
"He was a gambler. I believe he took to betting when he was a boy at school, and never gave up the habit. He squandered everything he could lay his hands upon, not his own money only."
"Do you consider betting very wrong?" Gerald inquired, wishing to hear what his uncle thought upon the subject.
"Do you consider betting right?" was the question Mr. Bailey put in return.
"N—o—o, I suppose not!" the boy admitted.
"You suppose not? I am certain it is not. And if it's not right, it's bound to be wrong. There can be no two thoughts about the matter. I've met many folks who've tried to persuade themselves there was no harm in betting and gambling, but they all went one way."
"What way was that, Uncle Edward?"
"The broad road which is so easy to travel because it's all downhill—the broad road which leads to destruction."
Gerald shuddered, for his uncle's tone had so much conviction in it. The broad road which leads to destruction! The words sounded again and again in his ears; he could not forget them.
"I suppose the chief idea of the gambler is to gain riches without labour," Mr. Bailey continued, "and that is wrong to begin with, for work is the salt of life; then, the gambler is generally a thief, for he always becomes unscrupulous as to how he obtains money. Never let any one persuade you, Gerald, that there is no harm in betting—it is one of the greatest curses of the present age, and is the cause of untold misery and sin. I believe people will bet on almost anything nowadays; indeed, Gilbert Mickle told me this afternoon that he suspected a lot of money would be won and lost over that cricket match we watched with so much interest. How terrible to think of turning a harmless recreation to such a purpose!"
Gerald mumbled some unintelligible reply. He regretted now that he had broached the subject of betting to his uncle at all, seeing how strongly he was set against it.
"If I could only raise the money to pay Hope I would never bet again," he thought; and then he remembered once more how Miss Goodwin had asked him if there was anything he was keeping from his father that ought to be told. What a sharp old lady she was; and how he wished he dared take her advice and tell his father his troubles. But, poor Gerald, though he had plenty of pluck in many ways, was a moral coward, and shrank from blame; besides which, his conscience was not wholly awakened even now. It is doubtful if the fact of his having betted would have weighed upon his mind if he had won his bets; he did not yet realize his sin.
The broad road which leads to destruction! How the words haunted him. Even in his sleep they must have been in his mind, for that night he dreamt he was running down a steep, broad road, at the bottom of which was a yawning ravine. Terror was in his heart, for it appeared to him that he could not stop running; and he felt he was falling headlong into unknown depths, when, with a start and a cry of affright, he awoke, shaking from head to foot, but thankful to find himself safe in bed. Thank God, it was only a dream!
EARLY in July, Mr. Willis found it necessary to go to London to interview the editor of a magazine concerning a series of illustrations for a certain story; and, at his suggestion, Mr. Bailey accompanied him. Their intention was to remain away a few days; and, before leaving, Mr. Willis asked Gerald to spend his evenings at home with Angel during their absence, explaining that he thought Mrs. Vallance would be more satisfied to know where he was, as she was to be left in charge of the household.
"Very well, father," Gerald replied willingly, "I'll do as you say. We shall get on all right without you; but it will be very dull, I expect; and I hope you will soon come home again."
So Angel and Gerald were left, in a way, to their own devices. It was great fun at first to be the only two at the table at meal times, and both children enjoyed the novelty of the situation; but when, after Mr. Bailey and Mr. Willis had been away several days, the latter wrote to say that they did not intend to return till the beginning of another week, Angel was very disappointed, and Gerald rather cross.
"Never mind, I expect they are having an enjoyable time!" she exclaimed. "I do hope they will go and see Mrs. Steer!"
"It's so dull without them," her brother grumbled, "and I think Mrs. Vallance is a great deal stricter than she has any right to be. She takes too much upon herself. The idea of her scolding me yesterday because I happened to get caught in a shower!"
"But she had told you to take your waterproof to school with you as the weather was so uncertain, and you wouldn't," Angel reminded him; "you ought to have obeyed her, you know. You came home drenched to the skin, and she had the trouble of drying all your clothes."
"She's only a servant! She has no right to dictate to us!"
"Oh yes, she has! Father said we were to do all we could to please her."
Gerald argued no further, for he well knew Angel never yielded a point which she considered right. The children were in the dining-room, where they were just finishing their lessons. Work ended, they put away their books and strolled out of doors, making their way to the kitchen garden, where Mrs. Vallance and Polly were busily occupied in picking raspberries for preserving. Angel at once volunteered her help, which was gladly accepted; and Gerald, after refreshing himself with a goodly quantity of the luscious fruit, wandered aimlessly towards the house, and finally went by the back door into the kitchen.
The kitchen at Haresdown House, the window of which commanded an uninterrupted view of the whole of the back garden, was a very pleasant room, and the picture of neatness. Gerald's roving eyes wandered from the gay prints which decorated the walls to the shining tin and copper articles on the mantel-piece, and from thence to an open workbox and a desk on a side table. The desk was locked, but the key had been left in the lock. Gerald wondered what was inside; and impelled by curiosity, and never reflecting that his action was dishonourable, he unlocked the desk, opened it, and examined its contents—a few sheets of notepaper, a parcel of envelopes, pens, and a dainty little tortoise-shell box, which he lifted with careful fingers.
"I expect this was a present," he thought; "how pretty it is! I wonder if it belongs to Mrs. Vallance or Polly—to Mrs. Vallance, I suppose." He opened it, and to his astonishment saw it contained several pieces of gold and a crisp five-pound note.
Gerald's eyes sparkled enviously at the sight. How he wished one of those bright sovereigns was his, then he would soon be out of debt. A sigh broke from his lips as he counted the coins. One—two—three sovereigns, and one—two—three—four half-sovereigns! He wondered if Mrs. Vallance knew how much money was there, and if it was hers, or if his uncle had given it to her for household expenses during his absence. If he had one of those sovereigns it would make him quite happy he thought, for Reginald Hope had hinted to him only that morning that he would require some money from him soon.
He glanced out of the window, and uttered an exclamation of alarm. Angel and Polly were still gathering raspberries; but Mrs. Vallance, having filled her dish, was coming towards the house to empty it. Acting on the impulse of the moment, Gerald hastily abstracted one of the sovereigns, replaced the tortoise-shell box where he had found it, shut the desk, locked it, and met the housekeeper at the back door as she was coming in. She looked at him sharply, struck by something peculiar in his expression; but he brushed by her, and went out into the garden without a word.
He was in high, unnatural spirits for the remainder of the evening; and at supper kept up an incessant flow of conversation, making wild plans as to how the summer holidays should be spent.
"Tom Mickle is talking of camping out," he said, "but Gilbert doesn't seem keen to join him. I wish father would let me! Wouldn't it be fun?"
"Yes, if the weather's fine," Angel answered doubtfully, "not if it rains."
"Oh, of course it will be fine in August!"
"You don't see much of Reginald Hope now, do you?" Angel inquired abruptly.
"No—not a great deal. I—I don't like him so much as I did at first; but, still, he's not a bad sort of fellow, mind you!"
"He's a very cruel boy, at any rate. Dinah Mickle says he bets; does he?"
"What if he does, Angel? It's nothing to do with you."
Gerald looked slightly uneasy as he made this reply, for he saw his sister was regarding him with keen attention. His eyes fell beneath her steady gaze as she said—
"No, of course it's nothing to me, but I thought—I thought—"
She paused in embarrassment, hardly liking to put what she really thought into words; it had occurred to her that it was possible Reginald Hope had prevailed upon her brother to bet, and that he might have been squandering his money in that way; the idea had never entered her head until a few days previously, when Dinah had informed her confidentially that Gilbert and Tom wouldn't have anything to do with Reginald Hope because he made bets and used bad language, and was not a nice boy at all.
"Oh, Gerald!" she cried, after a short pause, "I hope you will never bet! You know what father thinks about people who do!"
"Don't upset yourself, Angel," he interposed hurriedly; "didn't you hear me say that I don't see a great deal of Hope now? I've hardly spoken to him for days, and I mean to see less of him than ever."
Angel looked decidedly relieved on hearing this, but she was not quite satisfied; however, she let the subject drop.
When Gerald retired to his bedroom for the night, he tied up the sovereign he had taken from the tortoise-shell box in the corner of his pocket-handkerchief, which he placed under his pillow for safety; then jumped into bed, and quickly fell asleep. In the stillness of the night he awoke with a start, under the impression that he had heard his mother's voice speak his name. He sat up in bed and listened, but all was quiet. How could he have heard his dear mother speak when she had been dead for more than two long years? Of course he had been dreaming. His eyes grew dim as he remembered how he would never really hear the loved, well-known voice again as long as he lived; and he fumbled beneath his pillow for his pocket-handkerchief with which to wipe away his tears. Then, as he felt the sovereign, the events of the evening returned to his memory, and he trembled at the thought that he was a thief. He had committed a crime—such a crime as people were sent to prison for. There, in the darkness, with only the all-seeing eye of God to witness his terror, he realized the depths to which he had fallen. Supposing, when Mrs. Vallance discovered her loss, she sent for the police, and it was proved that he had robbed her? Oh, how he wished he had kept his prying fingers from that desk! He must have been mad to have acted as he had done. He would put the sovereign back at once. Swiftly he arose, and lighting a candle, untied the sovereign from the corner of the pocket-handkerchief; then silently opened the door, and stole softly downstairs. He hardly dared breathe properly, and when a stair creaked beneath his footstep, his heart almost stopped beating. But he reached the kitchen without disturbing any one; the desk was there, but the key was gone, and the desk itself was locked. He could not put back the sovereign where he had found it, and he dared not put it anywhere else.
He returned to his room with his heart full of despair, and, shutting the door, pondered what he could do. The idea of paying Reginald Hope had become a secondary consideration now; the awful dread that the money would be found upon him, and that he would be arrested for theft was uppermost in his mind. He looked around the room for some place wherein to conceal the coin, and at last re-tied it up in his pocket-handkerchief, which he thrust behind the damper in the chimney. That done, he drew a breath of relief, and got into bed once more, hoping that the next day he would have an opportunity of putting the money back. If Mrs. Vallance had not startled him by returning to the house when he had not been expecting her, he would not have taken the sovereign, he told himself, trying to quiet his conscience; he had acted impulsively, and if he had had time to consider the matter, it would have been different. Now he was a thief—yes, that was what he had come to be—a common thief! Was it not well that his mother had died rather than she should have lived to be disgraced by her son? That was the thought which appealed to him most, and brought him nearer real repentance than anything else could have done.
The following morning, Mrs. Vallance complained that candle-grease had been dropped upon the stair-carpets, and told Polly she was a very careless girl, and that she must learn to be more careful. Polly, of course, declared she was innocent of the offence, and the real culprit slunk off to school, feeling very guilty and mean. The housekeeper had evidently not discovered the loss of the sovereign yet.
In the playground, after morning school, Gerald was accosted by Reginald Hope, who clapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and addressed him in friendly tones—
"Hulloa, youngster! One would think you were in the depths of trouble, judging by your woe-begone face! What are you looking so gloomy about? Come, cheer up! What's wrong, eh?"
"Oh, nothing!" Gerald responded, with palpable untruthfulness.
"Nothing!" the other echoed incredulously. "Oh, that's nonsense! What's up? Are you in some scrape or other, or what is it? You needn't let your indebtedness to me weigh upon your mind, you know."
"It's awfully good of you to say that!" Gerald exclaimed gratefully. "I shall pay you as soon as ever I can, but, you see—"
"Oh, I like to oblige a friend," Reginald interrupted, "and you'll oblige me in return, won't you?" he asked. He was in the habit of making use of the younger boy on occasions, and hitherto Gerald had been satisfied to serve him.
"Oh yes!" was the ready response. "Do you want me to run an errand for you, or—"
"No, no; nothing of the kind. I want your company this evening. Come with me to the clay pits; several of the fish in my aquarium have died this week, and I must replace them. You always get better luck fishing than I do. You'll come?"
"I'm afraid I can't, Hope," Gerald answered, shaking his head. "I'll do anything else for you, but—"
"But I don't want you to do anything else! You said a moment ago you'd oblige me!"
"So I would in any way but this. You know I've been forbidden to go to the clay pits!"
"But you went there fishing with me once, and your father never found it out!"
"No; but Angel did," Gerald replied; then flushed hotly, and would have liked to be able to recall his words when he saw the look of intense scorn on his companion's face.
"Angel! And are you afraid of your sister?" Reginald asked, with a sneer.
"Not at all, not at all! That's not very likely! The fact is, father's in London now, and I promised him I'd spend my evenings at home till he returned. I'm afraid I can't go with you to-night, any way. I'm really very sorry, but you see how it is, don't you?"
"I hear what you say, but I don't see any reason why you should scruple to go fishing with me this evening if you choose, and I believe it's simply that you won't go. After all I've done for you, it's too bad for you to be so disobliging. Come, Willis, think better of it. If I hadn't lent you that half-sovereign the day of the cricket match, you'd have been in a pretty bad plight; I stood your friend then. Really, how you can be so ungrateful, I cannot think. Well, will you go with me to the clay pits, or will you not?"
"I really can't. I'm very sorry, but—"
"Then as soon as your father returns from London I shall call upon him and tell him what a fine son he's got, one who makes bets when he knows he can't pay them if he loses, and—"
"Oh, pray don't go on like that!" Gerald cried distressfully. "Oh, surely you won't think of telling father about the bets? You've been so kind to me that I can't think you mean it!"
"You'll soon see if I do or not—unless you pay me what you owe me."
"You know I can't do that! Oh, what shall I do?" And the poor boy looked on the brink of tears.
"Don't be so foolish!" the other exclaimed impatiently. "I declare, you're almost blubbering! Come, say you'll go to the clay pits fishing with me, and let's be friends."
Thus pressed, Gerald at last gave way; and Reginald Hope, having gained his point, was satisfied, and left the younger boy to his thoughts, which were very unhappy ones.
"I say, what's wrong?"
The voice was Gilbert Mickle's. Gerald turned with a start and faced the lame boy, who was regarding him with a kindliness of expression in his eyes which made him answer impulsively—
"Everything's wrong! I'm utterly miserable!"
"I'm sorry," Gilbert said, looking as though he meant it. "Can I help you? Mr. Willis is away, I know, so you can't go to him!"
"No one can help me," Gerald declared, his face so full of unhappiness that the other's heart was touched with compassion; "it would be no good if father was at home, because I couldn't tell him what's bothering me."
This sounded serious. Gilbert's countenance was very grave as he wondered what Gerald had done that he could not tell his father. It must be something very bad, he feared.
The lame boy hesitated a few minutes, a flush spreading slowly over his face; then he said in a low tone, with a visible effort—
"Look here! I don't want to preach to you; but if you've done something wrong that you don't like to tell your father, don't forget there's One who knows all about it—it's no secret to God! I'd ask Him to help me, if I were you."
Having given this advice, he swung himself away on his crutches, whilst Gerald stared after him in astonishment, feeling he had been a little unjust in his dislike of Gilbert Mickle, who evidently was his well-wisher at heart.
THE warm July evening was drawing in; heavy clouds were rising in the west, leaden in hue, portending a storm; and scarcely a breath of air stirred the leaves on the branches of the beech trees which completely overshadowed the narrow lane along which Dora and Gilbert Mickle were making their homeward way, the former's arms laden with bulrushes which she and her brother had obtained from a pond at a short distance from Wreyford for their mother, who had expressed a desire for some wherewith to decorate an ugly corner in the staircase.
"I am afraid your arms must be aching, Dora," Gilbert said; "those bulrushes are heavy, I know. I wish I could help carry them."
"Oh, never mind!" she replied cheerfully; "my arms do ache a little, but when we come to the next gateway we'll rest for a bit, shall we?"
"Certainly we will. How dark it's getting. It must be later than I thought; or perhaps it's only the branches keeping out the light."
The gateway reached, Dora put down her bundle of bulrushes on the ground, and perched herself on the top of the five-barred gate, against which Gilbert leaned whilst he surveyed the view—a stretch of pasture land, and beyond that the old disused clay pits, the water in which, being stagnant, appeared green and unwholesome even at that distance.
"See how dark the clouds are over there!" Dora exclaimed, pointing to the horizon. "It looks like a storm, doesn't it? I wonder if it's coming this way!"
"Perhaps it is; but, if so, it won't reach Wreyford for some time yet."
"Oh, Gilbert, there are two boys fishing in that clay pit—the one nearest here, I mean. I wonder if we can make out who they are. Yes—no—yes —I know!"
"I don't!" Gilbert replied. "What sharp eyes you must have, Dora. I can see two figures, but I can't recognize either. Your sight is better than mine. Who are they?"
"Reginald Hope and Gerald Willis."
"Hope and Willis? Are you sure?"
"Quite, quite sure."
"I believe Willis has been forbidden to go to the clay pits, and he certainly told me he had promised to remain at home evenings whilst his father was away."
"Do you think Mr. Willis can have returned?" Dora suggested.
"No. I wonder— Oh, what is that?" Shriek upon shriek from the direction of the clay pits fell upon their startled ears. Gilbert strained his eyes to see what was happening, but it was Dora who was the first to grasp the situation.
"Oh, one of them is gone!" she cried. "He has fallen into the water, I do believe! Oh, how horrible! He will be drowned!"
Gilbert's face was ashen, for he knew that the water in the clay pits was fearfully deep. Seizing his crutches, he swung himself over the gate, and hastened across the meadow, Dora following. The shrieks continued, mingled with cries of "Help! help!" from the solitary figure standing helplessly on the brink of the pit where the two boys had been fishing side by side but a few minutes before.
"That's Hope!" Gilbert exclaimed presently. They had come at a great rate, and by this time had nearly reached the scene of the accident. "Then it's Willis who's fallen in! See! he's clinging to the rushes! If he can hold on a little longer we may be able to save him. What is Hope thinking of, that he isn't doing anything to help him." Then, raising his voice, he shouted, "Hold on, Willis, I'm coming!"
Poor Gerald, who had slipped on the slimy bank above the pit, had, in falling, fortunately managed to grasp some of the rushes which grew around the edge of the pit, and so was enabled to keep his head and shoulders above the water. When Dora and Gilbert appeared in sight he was despairing of being rescued, for Hope, instead of coming to his assistance, was standing calling for help, afraid to stretch out a hand to the aid of his companion, lest he should share his fate.
"Oh, Mickle, save me!" Gerald cried imploringly. "Oh, I shall be drowned! I can't hold on much longer!"
This piteous appeal was too much for Dora. Never pausing to consider if she was acting wisely or not, she ran past Gilbert, and reaching the pit knelt down on the bank, and extended a hand to the terrified boy. He grasped it at once, and the next moment there was a splash, and the little girl was in the water too.
Afterwards Gilbert had always a very hazy idea of what followed. Everything happened so quickly that he had no time for reflecting on the horror of the situation. He was conscious of a sickening sensation when he saw the two struggling forms in the water, but he did not lose his presence of mind.
"God help us! God help us!" he cried; then, "Oh, God, show me what to do!"
Gerald had again succeeded in clutching the rushes; and, flinging himself flat on the bank, Gilbert caught him by the collar, and with a great effort pulled him to the edge of the pit, where Hope, ashamed of his cowardice, lent his assistance, and in a very short while the terrified boy was on dry land.
Dora had gone under, but she rose again only a short distance from the bank. Gilbert saw by the look of appeal in her eyes, though her lips uttered no sound, that she was not unconscious. Taking one of his crutches, he extended it towards her, telling her to catch hold of it. At first, he feared she was too frightened and bewildered to obey him; but, to his intense joy and relief, she succeeded in gripping it, and slowly he drew her by that means to the bank. Oh, how thankful he was at that moment for the infirmity which made his crutches a necessity! But for his lameness he would certainly not have been able to save Dora's life. His heart was full of exultation as he lifted the little form of his dearly-loved sister out of the water. He covered her pale, cold face with kisses as he held her in his arms, and implored her to speak to him. But Dora was quite unconscious now; her blue eyes were closed, and she showed no signs of life.
"Surely she is not dead!" Reginald exclaimed, as Gilbert laid her on the bank and began gently to chafe her hands. "She was not in the water very long. She can't be dead!"
"Dead!" echoed Gerald in a hollow tone. He was sitting on the bank, a miserable, dripping object, when the dread word fell upon his ears. Rising, he went to Dora's side, and gazed at her with a growing horror upon his face. "Oh, it is true," he wailed; "she is dead! And I have killed her!"
"No, no," Gilbert replied soothingly, "she is not dead. I can feel her heart beating. Oh, Dora, darling, open your eyes and look at me! Oh, my little sister!" And poor Gilbert's tears fell hotly, whilst he vainly tried to repress his emotion.
Perhaps his imploring voice reached Dora's dulled ears, for she really did open her eyes for a moment, and smiled faintly as she saw her brother; but she relapsed into unconsciousness, and Gilbert looked at the others despairingly, no whit ashamed of his tears, big boy as he was.
"What can we do?" he asked. "We ought to get her home as soon as we can. Oh, here comes some one! What a blessing! I know the man by sight; he's a farm labourer, I believe."
A big, good-natured looking countryman now appeared, and stood staring at the little group wonderingly, his ruddy countenance expressive of much concern. He had been going home from Work, he explained, and passing the gateway where Dora had left her bulrushes, he had paused to see if the owner of them was anywhere about; then he had become aware that something was amiss at one of the clay pits, and had hurried there to ascertain if he could be of any assistance. Gilbert briefly told him what had happened, and added that he was anxious to get his sister at home as soon as possible.
The man said he would gladly carry the "brave little maid," and lifting Dora in his strong arms, he bore her away without more to-do, whilst the boys followed in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Gerald found some difficulty in keeping up with the others, for his legs trembled and his clothes were heavy with water, besides which, he was getting colder and colder.
Reginald Hope was the first to speak, and certainly his words were an astonishment to his companions, coming as they did from one who had always held a wonderfully good opinion of himself.
"I am a coward," he said briefly, but with conviction in his tone. "I never even guessed it till to-day. I was afraid to go to Willis' assistance, but your little sister wasn't, Mickle. I'm a selfish brute. How you must despise me!"
"I don't despise you at all," Gilbert answered, "but—well, you were very frightened, and you lost your head."
At this moment Gerald, who was feeling very shaky, and whose nerves had received a shock, burst into a flood of tears.
"It would have been my fault if Dora had been drowned," he sobbed. "I never ought to have gone to the clay pits at all."
"Why did you, when you had been forbidden to go there?" Gilbert very naturally inquired.
"I made him," Reginald Hope acknowledged; "it was entirely my doing."
After that no more was said upon the subject. The high road was reached at length, where the party divided, Gilbert hurrying on ahead of the sturdy labourer, who carried his light burden with no apparent effort, whilst Reginald accompanied Gerald home, and thoughtfully promised, before parting with him at the gate of Haresdown House, to return later on and inform him what his father thought of Dora, for he felt certain the Mickles would send for Dr. Hope at once.
The storm, which had been gathering all the evening, now broke. The rain began to descend in torrents, and streaks of lightning lit up the angry sky, whilst the thunder pealed overhead.
Angel, growing very anxious at her brother's absence, for she had not the least idea where he had gone, and a little nervous at the storm, had sought company in the kitchen, when the front door was opened, and Gerald himself staggered into the house. The little girl ran into the hall to meet him, and her startled cry brought Mrs. Vallance and Polly upon the scene.
At first Gerald was utterly incapable of giving an account of what had occurred, and it was not until he was safely in bed, and the hot milk the housekeeper had insisted on his drinking was beginning to bring warmth back to his chilled frame, that he was able to enter into any explanations.
Angel shuddered and turned pale as she listened to his tale; Mrs. Vallance made no comments, but her face expressed plainly what she thought of his conduct. She carried off his wet clothes to dry, and left the children by themselves for a while. When she was alone with her brother, Angel sat down on a chair by his bedside, and, laying her head on his pillow, wept without restraint. She was so disappointed in him; and beyond the fact that he had broken his word to her, and again been disobedient, was the thought that he had brought trouble upon the Mickles.
"Oh, poor, dear little Dora!" she cried presently. "How brave of her to try to save you! Oh, Gerald, how I wish I knew how she was! She was quite unconscious, you say?"
"Yes. Hope promised faithfully to come back and let me know what his father thought about her," Gerald replied; "but perhaps he won't," he added, with a miserable sob. "Oh, how the Mickles will all hate me if Dora dies!"
"Oh, don't talk like that! I can't bear to hear you."
"Can't you pray for her?" Gerald asked suddenly. "I daren't pray myself. I'm too wicked."
"Oh no! You must pray with me, Gerald."
Angel knelt down by the bedside, and put her earnest petition that Dora's life might be spared into simple words; then she repeated the Lord's prayer, and Gerald, though he uttered no sound, joined with her in his heart.
The storm increased in fury, so that the children thought it extremely doubtful if Reginald Hope would keep his word and return to Haresdown House that night. At last, when they had given up expecting him, there was a ring at the front door bell, and Polly went to answer it.
It was not Reginald, however, but his father, who explained that Mrs. Mickle had asked him to call and see Gerald, for she felt very anxious about him, especially as Mr. Willis was from home.
"How's Dora?" asked Gerald, almost breathless with suspense, as the doctor entered his room.
"Better," was the prompt response, "and sleeping peacefully, I'm pleased to say. And how are you after your ducking, my boy? That son of mine ought not to have taken you to the clay pits. I had warned him not to go there."
"I had been forbidden to go there too," Gerald admitted.
"Humph!"
The doctor made no other comment. He felt Gerald's pulse, took his temperature, administered a dose of soothing medicine which he had brought with him, and then went downstairs, followed by Mrs. Vallance, who thanked him for calling.
"The boy will most probably be all right to-morrow," he told her; "you have done everything that was necessary under the circumstances; he is not in the least feverish, and very likely will not even have a cold as punishment for his disobedience. I shall send Reginald to a good, strict boarding-school next term, where I hope he will be taught to obey." And the doctor went out into the storm again, whilst the housekeeper returned to Gerald's room.
Now that his mind was easy about Dora, the boy was inclined to rest, so Mrs. Vallance and Angel left him to himself, and ten minutes later he had forgotten all his troubles in a deep, dreamless sleep. It was hours before Angel slept that night. She lay awake listening to the thunder in the distance, for the storm was passing away, and watching the lightning as it occasionally illuminated her room, whilst her tender conscience reproached her that she had not told her father of Gerald's disobedience when he had first gone fishing in the clay pits, and Mrs. Mickle had acquainted her with the truth. By holding her peace when she ought to have spoken, she had allowed Gerald to disobey a second time, and thereby nearly brought about the loss of his own and another's precious life. Mrs. Mickle had warned her that she was wrong in shielding her brother from blame; but she had never fully understood till now the harm she had been unconsciously doing. She was greatly troubled at the thought of what her father would say when he returned home and found that his son was not to be trusted. How astonished and grieved he would be when he heard of that evening's work! And, kind and good as Mrs. Mickle had been in sending Dr. Hope to see Gerald that night, how she must blame the boy in her heart.
Bitter tears bedewed Angel's pillow as she turned these matters over in her mind; she tossed restlessly and wearily about, and could not rest. The storm had died away altogether, and the first pale streaks of daybreak were appearing in the eastern sky before she at last fell into a troubled sleep.
GERALD, as Dr. Hope had predicted, was quite well in health on the following day, though exceedingly depressed and unhappy; but Dora had taken a severe chill, so that Mr. Willis and Mr. Bailey had returned before she was well again. They reached Haresdown House in the afternoon whilst the young folks were at school; and, consequently, they had heard the story of Gerald's disobedience and its consequences before Angel and Gerald came home.
Mr. Willis' first words to his son were somewhat of an astonishment to both children, who had anticipated that he would be very angry and severe in his mode of punishment. Gerald had been dreading the meeting with his father for days; and Angel had been looking forward to it with little less perturbation.
"I know all that has happened during my absence," Mr. Willis said gravely, as the guilty boy stood trembling before him. "We met Mr. Mickle as we came through the town, and he told us of your accident the other night. I promised him I would not punish you, for he believes the anxiety you have suffered on Dora's account to be sufficient punishment, and he begged me not to be harsh with you. I do not think I was ever that to either of my children. Perhaps I have erred in trusting you too far, but I am not likely to make that mistake again."
Gerald hung his head in shame at the sound of reproach in his father's voice; he had expected anger—punishment—but not this.
"Oh, father, you cannot think how sorry I am!" he murmured contritely, his eyes filling with tears.
"Yes, I think I can. But your sorrow would have been of little account if poor little Dora Mickle had lost her life. Say no more on the subject now; it makes one shudder to contemplate what might have been the results of your deliberate disobedience. I will have a talk with you by-and-by. Your uncle and I hoped to spend a happy evening, and I do not wish it to be spoilt on your account. We will speak of something else."
"First of all, let us tell the children about their old friend, Mrs. Steer," Mr. Bailey suggested. He had been observing Gerald whilst his father had been speaking to him, and was much struck by his haggard appearance and the hunted look in his eyes. "Tell them of our visit to her, John."
"Oh yes, do, father!" Angel cried, her troubled face brightening somewhat. It was a great relief to know that Mr. Willis did not intend to punish Gerald, and her spirits accordingly began to rise. "Dear Mrs. Steer! How kind she used to be to me! How did you find her? Was she glad to see you? Had she many lodgers? Was—"
"Oh, stop!" Mr. Willis exclaimed. "Not so many questions at once. We found her just as ever—she wore a purple gown, I cannot say if it was the same we used to know—and I really think she was glad to see us."
"Especially to see you, John," Mr. Bailey interposed. "I thought she would never cease shaking hands with you."
"She really seemed delighted," Mr. Willis continued, "and declared I was looking remarkably well. She asked all sorts of kind questions about you, Angel—if you went to school, if you had grown, and how you liked the country. We were with her quite a long while, she had so much to say; she even inquired about my work, and wanted to know if the picture which was to make my fortune was finished."
"What did you say?" Angel questioned, flushing a little.
"Of course I told her it was not, but I hoped it would be some day. She shook her head at that, and remarked that pictures were all very well in their way, but no one ought to waste much time upon them."
"Oh, father!" Angel exclaimed; then, seeing he was smiling, she broke into a laugh. "Mrs. Steer doesn't understand," she said, "but she means well, and she's a good old soul."
Gerald was wondering if their old landlady had made no mention of him, when his father turned to him with the remark—
"She was very interested in all I told her about you, too, Gerald. Indeed, I believe she is really fond of both of you children."
After tea Angel took her father out to look at her own garden, to see how the geraniums had come into flower. She took the opportunity to speak to him about her brother.
"He is so unhappy," she told him; "ever since the night of the accident he has not been like the same boy. I think he is grieving very much. He has been to inquire for Dora every day, and yesterday he saw Mrs. Mickle, and they had quite a long chat together. I don't know what they talked about, but when he came home he said to me, 'Angel, I've been a worse boy than you know, and when I've told father everything he'll never love or trust me again.' And, oh, he looked so white and wretched," the little girl concluded, almost in tears herself.
"Nothing Gerald has done could alter my affection for him," Mr. Willis replied gravely, "but trusting him is another matter. I can see he is miserable; I am sure that is not to be wondered at. There is no excuse for his behaviour."
"I know that, father, and I think he knows it himself."
Presently Mr. Bailey and Gerald joined the others in the garden. Gerald glanced at his father doubtfully; he dreaded to be left alone with him, and at the same time longed to get over the confession he had fully made up his mind to make. Mr. Willis sat down on a garden seat, and when Angel and Mr. Bailey strolled away in the direction of the kitchen garden, Gerald timidly approached his father, and ventured to place himself by his side.
"Father," he said huskily, "I have something to say to you."
He paused, as though unable to proceed further. Mr. Willis turned to him, and, as he remained silent, said gently—
"I suppose you want to ask my forgiveness, Gerald?"
"No," the boy replied, "no, not yet—not until you know all. Oh, how shall I tell you? Oh, what will you think of me?"
"Try not to excite yourself," his father said soothingly, pitying his distress. "If you have anything to confess to me, I am ready to hear it. Confide in me, my son, but let me have the whole truth."
"Yes," Gerald cried. "I am sick of lies. Oh, father, I have been so wicked—so awfully, awfully wicked!"
Mr. Willis scanned the boy's pale countenance with some anxiety. It was true that Gerald had been much worried about Dora; but in addition to that trouble had been the fears he had suffered from having been unable to restore the sovereign he had stolen. The coin was still hidden in his bedroom chimney, for he had never had an opportunity of putting it back in the little tortoise-shell box, as Mrs. Vallance had not left the key in the lock of her desk again. Remorse had preyed upon his mind and left its traces in dark circles around his blue eyes, and in a nervousness of manner which was painful to witness.
"Tell me what you have done," Mr. Willis said gravely; "don't be afraid of me, Gerald," he added quickly, as the boy appeared to cower beneath his steady gaze.
"I will, I will tell you! Oh, father, will you quite hate me, I wonder? I have spent my money in betting, and—and—I am a thief."
Mr. Willis turned perfectly white, and a look of alarm crossed his face.
"Explain what you mean," he said, laying his hand on his son's shoulder. "Don't spare yourself—or me. I must know everything. Tell me."
And Gerald did tell him. It was a miserable tale—difficult to relate, most painful to hear—of weakness and moral cowardice leading to deception and worse, but it was told at last. Dead silence followed.
"Does your sister know all this?" Mr. Willis asked at length.
"No, no! She guesses that I have been betting, but she knows nothing about the money I took."
"Gerald, you must give it back at once. That is the first thing to be done. You must tell Mrs. Vallance exactly how it was you took it, and restore it to her.'
"Oh, father!"
"You assure me you are truly sorry,"' Mr. Willis proceeded, his voice full of pain, "and that you repented of your sinful act the very night you stole the money, and would have replaced it if you had not found the key gone and the desk locked. You must explain all this to Mrs. Vallance. Go and get the sovereign, and bring it to my studio."
Gerald knew he must obey. Five minutes later he entered the studio, and found his father waiting for him. Mr. Willis rang the bell the instant his son appeared, and requested Polly, who answered the summons, to ask Mrs. Vallance to spare him a few minutes of her time.
When the housekeeper came in, Mr. Willis gave her a chair, saying Gerald had something to tell her; and Gerald, in a low, shamed tone, commenced his tale afresh, but, to his intense surprise, he had not proceeded far before he was stopped.
"I know all about it, Master Gerald," Mrs. Vallance interposed, her eyes fixed on the sovereign, which he had placed in her hand. "I missed the money the same evening you took it. I found I had left the key in my desk, and when I counted the coins in my little tortoise-shell box—it was Mr. Bailey's money, by the way, what he had given me for housekeeping expenses and in case of emergencies—I found I was a sovereign short. Well, I knew only two people had had an opportunity of touching it—you and Polly. I thought Polly was honest, and, at the same time, it did not appear likely you would have touched it, so I hardly knew what to do. After pondering over the matter a long while, I decided to hold my tongue about my loss, for I couldn't bear the idea of accusing any one wrongfully. So I kept watch, and felt very uneasy, I can tell you. I couldn't find out whether it was you or Polly who had taken the money. Indeed, I am thankful to know the truth, for I've been very uncomfortable and troubled."
"I should have put it back, only you took the key out of your desk," Gerald said eagerly, "I went down in the night, and it was I who dropped the candle-grease over the stair-carpets—not Polly. You can't think how mean and wicked I've felt, Mrs. Vallance. I hope you'll forgive me for prying into your desk, and—and—" He broke down completely, and hid his face in his hands.
"I do forgive you, Master Gerald. And, if you please, we'll never mention this matter again. I shall never speak of it to a living soul, I promise you that. I can see you're really sorry; and I shall pray that God's Holy Spirit may change your heart so that you may be better able to withstand temptation for the future."
Saying which, Mrs. Vallance rose and quietly left the room, shutting the door after her. By-and-by Gerald lifted his head and glanced at his father, who was watching him with an expression of mingled sorrow and affection in his eyes.
"Oh, father," sobbed the boy, "do you really love me still?"
"Yes, my son, certainly I do; and God loves you too, in spite of all, for His love is stronger and further reaching than mine. Deeply as you have sinned against Him, He is ready with His forgiveness if you truly repent. Confess your sins to your Father in Heaven."
Mr. Willis paused. He walked up and down the room for some minutes, much agitated. The voices of Angel and Mr. Bailey were heard in the garden outside.
"Will you tell them—everything?" Gerald asked in a choked voice. "I want them to know—and, oh, father, don't look so unhappy! I will really try to be a better boy."
"I hope you will," Mr. Willis responded, with a deep sigh. "Think what a grief your conduct would have been to your dear mother if she had lived."
"Oh, I know! I know!" the boy cried distressfully; and, overcome afresh with grief and remorse, he rushed out of the studio, and ran upstairs to his own room.
Flinging himself on his knees by the bedside, he gave way to his sorrow. If his father had not been so kind, if he had reproached him and refused him forgiveness, he would not have been so brokenhearted as he was now. How good his father had been to him!
By-and-by he tried to pray. He remembered how Angel had once said to him, "When we do anything wrong, it's really against God we sin," and he prayed earnestly. "Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me. Against Thee, Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy sight." As he prayed a sense of comfort stole into his sore heart; he felt that God had forgiven him.
When the supper bell rang he rose from his knees, and after bathing his tear-stained face and brushing his ruffled hair, went downstairs into the dining-room, where he found the others seated at table. Angel rose the minute he entered, and putting her arms around his neck, kissed him with trembling lips. He took her caress as an earnest of her unchanging love.
"Has father told you?" he whispered, noticing that she was very pale, and had evidently been crying.
"Yes," she answered.
"Everything? About my betting, and the money I stole from Mrs. Vallance?"
She nodded. Mr. Bailey, who was quietly eating his supper, now lifted his eyes from his plate, and beckoned to Gerald to take the chair next to him.
"Sit down, my boy," he said kindly; "your father has told us everything you wished us to know. You must have been very unhappy lately, with so much on your mind. But you are going to turn over a new leaf. You have been on the wrong road. Thank God you can retrace your footsteps and start afresh—not in your own strength this time."
Gerald cast a grateful glance at his uncle, who during supper did his very best to keep up the conversation which, however, in spite of his efforts, continually flagged. Mr. Willis looked depressed, and very different from his usually cheery self; Angel had great difficulty in restraining her tears; whilst Gerald was fully conscious that he had quite spoilt the happiness and pleasure of his father and uncle's home-coming.
The following morning Mr. Willis gave his son the money to pay all he owed to Reginald Hope, so he was able to free himself from debt at last, and returned home from school with a lighter heart than he had had for many weeks. He had another cause for which to be thankful—Tom Mickle had told him that Dora was much better, and able to rise from bed. In the course of a few days she was about again, and by the time the summer holidays arrived, had regained her health and strength.
Angel and Gerald had one long talk together concerning his delinquencies; he confided in her how he had been led into the path of deception and lies, and promised her to speak the truth and act honourably for the future. Angel thought he meant to keep his word, and she was right. He knew it would be some time before his relatives and friends would regain their faith in him, and the thought that they were unable to trust him was very bitter and humiliating. The poor boy was learning by experience that evil-doing always brings its own punishment, and that we are bound to bear the consequences of our sins, even though we have repented and obtained forgiveness. Hitherto, Gerald had always thought of himself first, but now he was endeavouring to be thoughtful for others, especially with the sister who had borne with him so long. The Mickle children said amongst themselves that Gerald Willis was much nicer than he used to be, and accordingly treated him with far more geniality than they had done in the days when they had constantly been brought face to face with his selfishness and his determination to insure his own comfort and pleasure at any cost.
Gerald had a hard battle to fight in the new path he had solemnly vowed to himself to tread; his old associates at school were not easily dropped, and the new ones he tried to make were shy of his advances. Many were the temptations that beset him; but those who loved him knew that he would not fall by the way, for he had gone for assistance to the one Friend who never fails us: he had found Jesus, and no longer stood alone.
IT was a December afternoon, and unusually mild for the season. The weather had been showery for days, and though the rain had kept off for several hours, heavy clouds still floated swiftly across the sky, driven by a westerly wind, throwing fleeting shadows over the emerald green meadows on the slope of Haresdown hill, and now and then obscuring the soft, pale rays of the setting sun.
In the porch of the old parish church were seated Dinah and Dora Mickle with Angel Willis. They had been speaking of the latter's first visit to Wreyford with Mr. Bailey a year before; but now the little girls had hushed their voices to listen to the glad, clear notes of a robin, perched on a tombstone not more than a yard or so from the porch. The sweet songster warbled happily for several minutes, by no means disquieted by his audience; then, his cheery song concluded, he spread his wings and flew away.
"I wonder if he was singing for our benefit," Angel said, smiling at the thought; "he seemed to be watching us with his sharp dark eyes—the dear thing!"
"Yes, so he did," Dinah replied. "Robins are my favourite birds, because they sing in the winter when all the others are silent. Let me see, what was it we were talking about? Oh, I know! Yes, it must have been about a year ago when we first met you, Angel; I remember so well father calling me downstairs and introducing me to you."
"Yes. And he told you to amuse me, and give me some tea," Angel broke in eagerly; "and, oh, how shy I felt when you led me upstairs, and into the dining-room!"
"Yes!" Dora cried; "and Tom laughed at you, and afterwards Gilbert was nasty because he fancied you were staring at him because he was lame and walked with crutches. I'm afraid you didn't like us much."
"There you are mistaken. I liked you and Dinah, you were so kind; and I think I loved your mother from the very first moment I saw her. Little did I think then that I should soon get to know you so well, or that my home would be at Wreyford too!"
"It was that very day Dora and I discovered Haresdown House was taken," Dinah remarked reflectively; "I remember we had been for a walk, and had rested here just as we are doing this afternoon. I had been telling Dora all about poor old Ezekiel Hassal, who was parish clerk here in Oliver Cromwell's time—you know his story—and as we were going home we noticed the board had been taken down from the garden of Haresdown House. Then, when we reached home, Gilbert told us the place had been bought by an Australian gentleman, and whilst he was explaining to us what you and your uncle were like, we looked out of the window, and saw you and Mr. Bailey and father at the garden gate. Oh, Angel, how you have altered since then!"
"Have I?" Angel exclaimed in surprise. "How? In what way do you mean?"
"You've grown, and become plump and rosy. You used to be such a pale little thing, with large grey eyes that looked too big for your face," Dinah responded promptly.
"Tom said they were owly, like a young bird's," Dora said, gazing at her friend scrutinously; "but they're not a bit like that now, are they, Dinah?"
"No, indeed! Then, you had such an old-fashioned way of talking, as though you were a grownup person. I remember you told mother you had not 'the artistic temperament'; I have so often wondered what you meant by that.
"Was it an odd thing to say? Yes, I dare say it was." Angel laughed merrily, then became suddenly grave. "When I was a little girl," she said thoughtfully— "oh, long before my mother died!—father used to put a pencil in my hand, and try to get me to draw, but I never had the least idea about copying anything, and he would look so disappointed. One day I overheard mother and father talking about me, and father said 'She has not the artistic temperament.' Of course I had no idea what he meant, but I somehow understood from the sound of his voice that he was sorry. When I grew older, and knew I had been called Angelica after Angelica Kauffmann, the painter, I began to see why father couldn't help being a little disappointed, and I never forgot his words; it seemed to me to be dreadful that an artist's daughter shouldn't have 'the artistic temperament.' I used to trouble about it, but I don't now. If I can't draw and paint, I can sew, and do other things."
"Yes, indeed!" Dinah agreed; "and you are getting on so well with your music. It's a pity there's no piano at Haresdown House!"
A smile crept into Angel's eyes; she hesitated a moment before replying.
"I can't help thinking we're to have a piano soon," she said confidentially, "because the other day I came upon father and Uncle Edward suddenly in the dining-room, and they were looking over an advertisement list of pianos; they put it away immediately they saw me, but not before I had caught sight of it. Neither of them said a word about it, so, of course, I didn't; but, oh, it would be splendid to have a piano! Gerald keeps on saying, 'What a very great pity it is that we have no piano at Haresdown House for you to practise upon!' I know there must be a reason for his harping on the point like that."
"It's very evident your people can't keep a secret!" Dinah exclaimed, with an amused laugh. "Well, I suppose we ought to be moving homewards, though it's very comfortable and sheltered here, isn't it? How lovely everything looks when the sun shines out! Gilbert says the shadows are always so beautiful on a showery day! Oh, by the way, Angel, have you seen the picture Gilbert has painted for Miss Goodwin?"
"Oh yes! She called father and me in when we were passing Myrtle Villa yesterday, and showed it to us. I liked it so much, and Miss Goodwin seemed simply delighted with it, and so flattered that Gilbert had painted it on purpose for her."
"Gilbert hoped she would be pleased with it, he had heard her admire the old bridge over the river so often, and guessed she would like a picture of it. But what was your father's opinion about it?" Dinah asked anxiously.
"He said it showed great talent, and that he was proud of his pupil."
"I am so glad!" the sisters exclaimed in a breath; and Dora added, "I shall tell Gilbert that!"
"He will be pleased, because he thinks so much of Mr. Willis' opinion," said Dinah. "Do you know, Angel, father has promised to let Gilbert be an artist if he really wants to be one. Isn't it good of father? He wished Gilbert to be a lawyer; but mother thinks if Gilbert has a talent for painting, he ought to use it; and if he's an artist, his lameness won't matter! I don't know if it would matter much if he was a lawyer," she added, "because he's not nearly so sensitive about it as he was. He says since that night when his crutch was the means of saving Dora's life he's never regretted being lame."
"Dear old Gilbert!" the younger sister exclaimed softly. "Angel, do you know Reginald Hope is at home again?" she questioned after a brief silence.
Angel shook her head. At the commencement of the autumn term Dr. Hope had sent his son to a strict boarding-school, as he had threatened to do. Dora proceeded to explain that her brothers had met their old school-fellow on the previous day, and had had quite a long conversation with him, during which they had noticed that he had changed a good deal.