Chapter XVIII: In the Orchard

ANGEL found her brother seated upon the rustic seat, on the back of which he had been cutting his initials. He shut his pocket-knife as she sat down by his side, and turned his attention to her, remarking—

"Father says you had tea with Miss Goodwin and Mrs. Mickle at Myrtle Villa. Didn't you find it rather slow?"

She shook her head, but made no reply in words. Surprised at her silence, he looked at her scrutinously, and noted the signs of recent grief upon her countenance.

"You've been crying!" he exclaimed in accents of intense astonishment, for his sister was not of a tearful disposition as a rule. "What's the matter? Have you quarrelled with the girls at school, or—"

"Oh no, no! But I'm very unhappy, Gerald, and—and it's about you!"

"About me!" Gerald's face at first expressed nothing but bewilderment; then he flushed and began to look somewhat uneasy. "What me?" he asked. "What have I been doing to make you cry? Why, we've not been alone together for days. You're talking nonsense."

"I have heard where you were on Saturday afternoon," she said in low, reproachful tones; "you went to the clay pits fishing, and you told me that you were going to play cricket with the grammar school boys. Oh, what made you tell me such a story? And why did you disobey Uncle Edward?"

For a moment there was dead silence, then Gerald burst out wrathfully, "I know who told you! It was that sneaking cripple, Gilbert Mickle! But I'll be even with him yet! Oh, how I hate him! He's always prying into my business—and interfering with me! The wretched—"

"Hush, hush!" Angel interrupted indignantly. "Don't speak like that. How can you, Gerald? Besides, it was not Gilbert who told me."

"Not Gilbert? Who was it, then?"

"It doesn't matter who it was," she replied, "and I shall not tell you."

"Don't! I don't care! It was some meddlesome busybody! If I did go to the clay pits, what has that to do with you?" he demanded angrily.

"A great deal. How should I feel if you fell into one of the pits and got drowned?" And the tears welled into her eyes at the thought.

"Pooh! I'm not likely to do that!" he retorted scornfully.

"Did you forget Uncle Edward had forbidden you to go there? But, no! You told me a story, thinking it wouldn't be found out where you'd been."

"Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it. I won't tell you what isn't true again. I went with Reginald Hope to get some fish for his aquarium; I couldn't well refuse to go; if I had, it would have seemed so disobliging."

"Not if you had told him Uncle Edward had forbidden us to go near the clay pits."

Gerald was silent, not deeming it prudent to explain that he had informed his friend of that fact, and had been laughed out of the thought of obedience.

Gilbert Mickle had not been very far wrong when he had said that Reginald Hope had Gerald under his thumb.

"I didn't want to go," the boy acknowledged at length, "but Hope made such a point of it, and so—and so I went. Of course, I know it wasn't right of me, and I wouldn't have father or Uncle Edward hear about it for anything. You won't tell them, will you, Angel?" And he placed a coaxing arm around his sister's neck.

"I don't want to get you into trouble," she said gently, "but you have behaved so very badly, and—and I want to do what's right."

"You always do that, Angel," he told her with sincerity in his tone, "you're heaps better than I am; but then," he added, "you're only a girl, and it's easy for you to be good."

"It isn't easy at all. I don't know what you mean. Oh, I suppose you think I haven't as many temptations to do wrong as you have! I don't know about that; but I know I find it very hard to be good—oh, very hard! Oh, Gerald, why did you tell me such a story? Did you forget how wicked it was, and that God knew all about it?"

He turned his guilty face aside from his sister's accusing eyes as he replied—

"I—I'm sorry I told you that yarn about going to play cricket, I am indeed, though you mayn't believe it. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Oh yes, I will! And you'll ask God to forgive you, too, Gerald? You know," she proceeded timidly, fearful lest he should turn upon her and tell her "not to preach," as he sometimes did when she tried to speak to him seriously, "that when we do anything wrong it's really against God we sin. Don't you remember how mother used to tell us that? I remember once when I was quite small I had been naughty, and afterwards when I was really sorry, she taught me a prayer from the fifty-first Psalm, and I always say it now. It was this: '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.' Mother said that if we remembered that, we shouldn't fall into sin so easily. You see what I mean, don't you? You didn't mind telling me a story, but you would have minded if you had thought of God. You'll ask Him to forgive you, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," Gerald responded in an unusually gentle tone, momentarily impressed by the solemn words of the psalmist which his sister had repeated.

"And you'll promise never to go near the clay pits with Reginald Hope again?" she questioned eagerly.

"Oh yes! He's asked me to go on Saturday, but I'll make an excuse. I didn't enjoy myself a bit the other afternoon. You won't tell father or Uncle Edward now, will you, Angel?" Then, as she shook her head, he kissed her with a sudden burst of affection, recalling many occasions on which he had not been so considerate to her as he might have been. "You're a good little soul!" he cried. "If you were like some boys' sisters, you would only be too pleased to get me into a row! But you were never spiteful like that."

"I hope not," she replied, smiling, and flushing with happiness at his loving tone. "It hurts me as much as it does you, I think, when you're in trouble! And—and it makes me so unhappy if you're disobedient—but we won't speak of that any more! What is it you have to say to me?" she asked, suddenly remembering that he had said he wanted a talk with her.

"Oh, nothing much," he answered a little evasively, "only about things in general. It's an age since we had a good long yarn together. Tell me how you are getting on at school."

Angel complied willingly, for she was pleased that her brother showed interest in what concerned her. She told him she was learning music; her mother had commenced teaching her, but she had never had a lesson till now since Mrs. Willis' death. She explained that it had been arranged for her to practise every afternoon at school, as there was no piano at Haresdown House.

"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.