Chapter XXIII: The Broad Road

"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!