Chapter XXIV: Greater Depths

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.