Chapter XII: Gerald's Selfishness

"ANGEL, I want to speak to you!"

Angel, who was engaged in industriously weeding a corner of the back garden which her uncle had allotted to her as her own, turned her face towards her brother, and paused in her work as she asked—

"Well, Gerald, what is it?"

Both children had greatly improved in appearance since their arrival at Wreyford, Angel more noticeably so; already her cheeks were rounder, and their old pallor was giving place to a ruddier, healthier hue.

"What is it?" she repeated, as Gerald did not immediately reply. "I'm listening. But, be quick, and tell me what you want, for I'm very busy; Miss Goodwin is going to give me some flower seeds, and I must get the ground ready for them, because Uncle Edward says it's high time they were tilled."

"I want to know if you can lend me some money, Angel?"

"Why, what have you done with the sixpence father gave you yesterday?" she cried in surprise.

"Spent it, of course! It doesn't take long to spend sixpence!" he exclaimed irritably.

"No; but don't you remember father said he should give you no more this week?"

"I know, I know! That's why I want you to lend me some."

"I really can't. I'm very sorry, Gerald, but—"

"Oh, how selfish of you!" Gerald interrupted, his eyes flashing indignation upon his sister. "I had no idea you could be so stingy. Do you really mean to say you won't lend me some money?"

"I can't, I can't, indeed!" Angel cried distressfully. "I would if I could; but I haven't got any. Not a penny!"

Gerald looked incredulous for a minute, then he said—

"What have you done with it all? There was that half-crown Uncle Edward gave you the day after we arrived here—you can't have spent all that?"

"He gave you half-a-crown at the same time, and yours was gone a fortnight ago," Angel reminded her brother; "and you've had money from father besides, and I haven't."

"Well, you needn't be cross! Of course boys want more money than girls," Gerald declared in a lordly tone. "Are you sure you can't lend me just a few pence?" he asked persuasively.

"Quite sure. Do you think I would tell you a story about it?" she demanded, her grey eyes flashing indignantly.

"No, no," Gerald responded hastily; "I was only surprised to think you had spent all your money."

"I don't see why you should be. Let me see," said Angel reflectively, "I bought some notepaper with bunches of violets on each sheet because I wanted to write to Mrs. Steer, and I thought she would be sure to like my letter better if it was written on pretty paper— that was a shilling. Then, the little jar for flowers I gave to father for his studio cost another shilling—that's two shillings. And threepence I spent in sweets one day when I was in the town with Dinah and Dora Mickle—that's two shillings and threepence. And—"

"Oh, I don't want to know how you spent it all!" Gerald interposed impatiently; "since it's all gone, it's no matter."

Angel proceeded with her weeding, her brother watching her with rather a dissatisfied expression on his handsome face. Presently he reopened the conversation—

"Angel, couldn't you ask father to change his mind, and let me have a little money?"

"Oh no, no, I couldn't," she answered hastily.

"Oh, you might. He always does what you ask him—" this in coaxing tones. "Don't be disagreeable, Angel."

"I don't mean to be disagreeable," the little girl said, looking troubled, for she rarely refused any request of her brother's, and it distressed her to do so now, "but I can't ask father for money when he hasn't earned any for months. I'm sure he hasn't much to spare."

"What a nuisance! Well, then, how would it be if you asked Uncle Edward instead?"

"Gerald!" Angel exclaimed, looking positively shocked at the idea. "You really can't mean it."

"Why not? I believe Uncle Edward has plenty of money; I'm sure he'd willingly give me a shilling or two if you asked him. He's awfully fond of you, he is indeed."

"Oh, I couldn't ask him. Think of all he has done for us; how he managed and paid for everything when father was ill, and how he has brought us to this beautiful place. Oh, I couldn't ask him for money! How can you suggest it? It would be dreadful. It would seem so greedy after all his kindness."

Angel spoke so emphatically that her brother saw it was useless to argue the matter. He stood with his hands thrust into his trousers' pockets, kicking the small pebbles in the path, his face a picture of discontent. He considered his sister very unkind and disobliging; but he had no intention of putting his petition to his uncle himself.

"Never mind," Angel said consolingly after a few minutes' silence, during which she had reflected that probably Gerald did not mean to be greedy, "you will have your usual pocket-money from father on Monday. It will not be long to wait till then. What are you going to put in your garden?" she inquired, with the laudable desire of changing the conversation to a pleasanter subject.

"I don't know that I shall till it up at all. I don't much care for gardening—it's too much work."

"But I thought you told Uncle Edward you wanted a piece of ground for yourself?"

"I've changed my mind. I don't care about it now."

Gerald was evidently in a bad temper, recognizing which fact, Angel wisely held her peace, and continued her work in silence.

"It's a nuisance father has asked Gilbert Mickle here this afternoon," said the boy presently in a grumbling tone. "I don't like him a bit, do you?"

"I—I hardly know," Angel responded, with some hesitation. "I am very sorry for him because he's lame, and I'm afraid he isn't very happy. I think he looks so sad."

"He looks awfully bad-tempered. Tom says the best way is to take no notice of him if he's snappy. Oh, Tom didn't say anything against him, only that when Gilbert's in a temper it's better not to answer him back because he's so sharp, you're sure to get the worst of it. Tom thinks a good bit of Gilbert, really—says he's most awfully clever! I don't believe he'd hear a word against him. I wish Tom was coming this afternoon too."

But when Gilbert appeared, punctually at three o'clock, he was alone. He found Mr. Bailey leaning over the front gate; and Mr. Willis was walking up and down in front of the house, in the sunshine, with his little daughter. The lame boy was greeted very cordially, and made to feel welcome. He was shy at first, but when he was taken into the studio and shown some of the artist's work, he lost all feeling of self-consciousness and talked without restraint.

"Where is Gerald?" Mr. Willis asked suddenly, turning to Angel, who was herself wondering what had become of her brother.

"I don't know, father," she answered; "I have not seen him since dinner. I think he went out, but I am not sure."

"Perhaps he is in the house, and does not know our visitor has arrived," Mr. Bailey suggested; "he may be in his own room."

"I will go and see if I can find him," Angel said, seeing annoyance in her father's face, and rightly guessing that he was vexed at Gerald's absence.

But although she searched upstairs and downstairs, in the stable and outhouses, and even in the orchard beyond the back garden, Gerald was not to be found; and she was reluctantly obliged to return to the studio, and confess that he was not on the premises. Mr. Willis made no comment, but his face expressed his displeasure; he was showing his unfinished picture to his guest, who was standing before it with flushed cheeks and eyes glowing with enthusiasm.

"Isn't it beautiful?" Angel said softly. "Do you like it?"

"Like it!" the boy echoed; "I can't say how much I admire it. It is indeed beautiful! How sorry you must have been to have been obliged to put it on one side," he remarked, turning to Mr. Willis.

"Yes," the artist acknowledged, "but I have no doubt now it was for the best, though when I was first taken ill the thought of my unfinished picture was my one great trouble, for I meant it to do so much."

"But you will finish it some day," Gilbert said eagerly. "Is there a lot more to be done to it?"

"No, mostly finishing touches; but those I shall not attempt to put until I am quite well, lest I should spoil the whole."

The afternoon passed very pleasantly and swiftly, so that Gilbert was astonished when Polly, the rosy-cheeked maid who assisted the housekeeper, came knocking at the studio door to inform her master that tea was ready in the dining-room.

"Oh, how long I have stayed!" the boy cried apologetically, as he hastily seized his crutches. "I must have been here hours."

"Only two hours," Mr. Bailey said, with his hearty laugh, adding hospitably, "You must remain one longer and have some tea with us. Oh, you must; we shall not like it, I assure you, if you persist in leaving." And he laid his big, kindly hand persuasively on Gilbert's shoulder.

Gilbert yielded willingly enough, and followed his host into the dining-room, whilst Mr. Willis drew Angel aside, and questioned her about her brother. "I really don't know where he is, father," she said in uneasy tones, "but I fancy he may have gone away this afternoon because he knew Gilbert Mickle was coming, and he doesn't like him."

"If so, it is extremely rude of him," Mr. Willis replied; "he ought to have been at home to help entertain our visitor."

"Yes," Angel acknowledged; "I am so sorry, father."

"Well, my dear, it is not your fault, so you need not look so serious about it."

They had nearly finished tea when Gerald marched into the room, looking perfectly unconcerned. The minute he saw the visitor, however, his countenance changed, for it had not occurred to him that Gilbert would remain so long.

"Where have you been all the afternoon?" Mr. Willis inquired sharply.

"I've been fishing, father."

"Alone?"

"Yes," the boy responded, adding, after a moment's hesitation, "that is, part of the time."

"Sit down and have your tea now," Mr. Bailey interposed; "I dare say you are hungry."

No further questions were asked Gerald for the present, but the boy saw his father was annoyed with him. Later, when Mr. Bailey volunteered to walk part way home with Gilbert, Mr. Willis would not permit Gerald to accompany them. Angel went with them as far as the garden gate, and watched them down the hill; and on returning to the dining-room, she found her father had been taking Gerald to task for his rudeness in absenting himself from home that afternoon, and Gerald was trying to find excuses for his behaviour.

"I don't like Gilbert Mickle," he was saying as Angel entered the room; "I don't suppose he wanted to see me; he scarcely ever has anything to say to me."

"Perhaps you scarcely ever have anything to say to him," Mr. Willis replied gravely; "but that has nothing to do with the matter. I consider your behaviour this afternoon both rude and selfish— particularly selfish. Where did you go fishing? In the river, I suppose?"

"Yes," Gerald answered sulkily. "Uncle Edward told me not to fish in the clay pits, so, of course, I didn't."

Mr. Bailey had presented him with a fishing-rod a few days previously, since when he had spent many hours with Tom Mickle, fishing in the Wrey, with no very encouraging results as yet. The clay pits to which he alluded were old disused mines which had not been worked for many years, the supply of clay having failed; they were very deep, and full of stagnant water, where such fish as roach and dace bred, and supplied sport for the boys of the neighbourhood who were not content with fishing in the river.

That afternoon, being alone, Gerald had soon grown tired of fishing, especially as the fish declined to bite, so he had put aside his rod, and idly wandered along the bank of the stream till he had met a boy with whom he had entered into conversation. His new acquaintance had informed him that his name was Reginald Hope, and that his father was a doctor in Wreyford, and that he himself attended the Wreyford Grammar School; after which they had grown quite friendly, and had spent a very enjoyable time together. This Gerald told frankly enough; but he refrained from telling what the chief part of his conversation with Reginald Hope had been about, for he had a very shrewd suspicion that his father would not approve of it. The fact was, his new acquaintance had rather amazed him by talking a great deal of betting, and boasting of the money he had won by that means; and though Gerald had considered him a fine, manly fellow whilst he had been talking to him, and had admired his free-and-easy mode of speech, yet now he was away from the glamour of his presence he was doubtful if Reginald Hope was the sort of boy his father would like him to be on very friendly terms with.

"I am sorry you think I behaved so rudely this afternoon," Gerald said presently, as he began to realize that Mr. Willis had just cause for his displeasure; "I—I suppose it was not polite to go away like that."

"That it certainly was not; but I think more of your selfishness. I wish you would try to consider others sometimes."

Mr. Willis spoke reprovingly, though with a softer tone in his voice now, as he noticed his son was really beginning to look repentant and ashamed of himself.

"I don't mean to be selfish," Gerald said in a low tone. "Shall I apologize to Gilbert Mickle?" he suggested doubtfully.

Mr. Willis shook his head, much to Gerald's relief. Angel began to give her brother an account of the lame boy's visit; but he did not appear much interested, not even when she told him how much Gilbert had admired their father's picture.

"And Gilbert draws himself," she informed him; "he is going to let father see some of his sketches, and father has promised to say what he really thinks of them."

"Tom says Gilbert's always drawing up in the attic," Gerald replied, "but he won't show any of them what he's doing. He's an awfully close sort of fellow. Tom thinks he's afraid of being laughed at."

"Perhaps Tom doesn't spare his brother's feelings," Mr. Willis remarked; "it strikes me that Gilbert is a very sensitive boy, and no doubt cannot stand ridicule. Poor lad! His is a sad affliction."

"It must be terrible to be lame," Gerald exclaimed. "But perhaps as he's always been like that he doesn't mind so much."

"I should say that is very doubtful," Mr. Willis said, with a grave shake of his head. "I think he minds greatly, and has not learnt yet that God generally compensates those He afflicts. I don't think he appreciates the bright mental qualities with which he is evidently endowed. He appears to me a very clever boy, and shrewd beyond his years. I am told he is one of the shining lights at the Grammar School."

"Yes, but the boys hate him!" Gerald cried.

"How do you know that, Gerald?"

"Oh, that fellow I met this afternoon told me so. He says Gilbert Mickle's temper is as crooked as his legs."

"What an unkind thing to say—" Angel was beginning when she suddenly paused, as the remembrance of the way in which the lame boy had behaved to her on their first acquaintance crossed her mind, and she had to admit to herself that there was certainly some truth in the speech.

When Mr. Bailey returned, he refrained from mentioning the subject of Gerald's absence from home that afternoon, much to that young gentleman's relief; he informed them he had parted from Gilbert at the bottom of the hill, and went on to say—

"He thanked me most gratefully for accompanying him so far, and I asked him to come and see us as often as he liked. He is going to bring some of his drawings to show you, John, the next time he pays us a visit. He appears deeply interested in your work."

Whilst the others continued to talk of Gilbert Mickle, Gerald was busy with his thoughts, which were of his new acquaintance, Reginald Hope. He felt he must see more of him, and hoped it would not be long before they met again. Reginald Hope had boasted that he was never without money in his pocket; and had hinted that perhaps he might, on another occasion, tell Gerald how that came about; and Gerald, as he reflected on his present penniless condition, thought he would much like to know the secret of the other's wealth.

"What are you thinking about so deeply, Gerald?" his father's voice broke in upon his musings.

"Nothing," the boy answered quickly, flushing guiltily as he met Mr. Willis' kind, inquiring eyes; "that is, nothing of any importance."

"I should have thought it was something of importance judging by your face," Mr. Willis returned good-humouredly; "but never mind, my son, your thoughts are your own."