Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "PRAY GIVE THE FLOWERS TO YOUR FATHER,
WITH MY COMPLIMENTS."]
ANGEL'S BROTHER
BY
ELEANORA H. STOOKE.
AUTHOR OF
"Little Maid Marigold," etc.
With Coloured Illustrations by W.H.C. Groome
London
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.4
Printed in Great Britain.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE MILKMAN'S LITTLE ACCOUNT
II. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
III. AN OVERSHADOWED HAPPINESS
IV. THE MICKLE FAMILY
V. HOW ANGEL MADE SEVERAL NEW ACQUAINTANCES
VI. GERALD'S JEALOUSY
VII. UNCLE EDWARD'S OFFER
VIII. INTRODUCES MISS GOODWIN
IX. AN EXODUS FROM LONDON
X. SPRING FLOWERS
XI. ON THE BRIDGE
XII. GERALD'S SELFISHNESS
XIII. IN THE MEADOWS
XIV. THE FATE OF THE ROBINS
XV. COMMENCING THE SUMMER TERM
XVI. GILBERT'S SUSPICIONS
XVII. AT MYRTLE VILLA
XVIII. IN THE ORCHARD
XIX. GERALD'S TEMPER
XX. THE QUARREL
XXI. MISS GOODWIN'S BROTHER
XXII. DORA MICKLE'S TEA-PARTY
XXIII. THE BROAD ROAD
XXIV. GREATER DEPTHS
XXV. AN ALARMING EXPERIENCE
XXVI. GERALD'S REPENTANCE
XXVII. FIVE MONTHS LATER
XXVIII. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
The Milkman's Little Account
IT was a dull little sitting-room on the third floor of a dingy
lodging-house, in an unfashionable London suburb. The pale rays
of November sunshine peeping through the window panes enhanced the
shabbiness of the apartment with its cheap, much-worn furniture, and
ugly wall-paper, its pretentious mirror in a tarnished gilded frame
above the mantel-piece, and the ill-chosen ornaments which were
doubtless supposed to add attractiveness to the whole.
The sole occupant of the room, at present, was a little girl of about
eleven years of age. Her name was Angelica Willis, but she was always
called Angel. She was a slight, pale child, with a gentle,
sweet-tempered face, which, if not exactly pretty, was very pleasing
by reason of a pair of honest, grey eyes—true reflectors of every
thought which crossed their owner's mind. Now, the grey eyes were
misty and sad in expression, for Angel was thinking of her mother,
who had died two years before, and recalling all that she had said
the last time they had talked together. In imagination she could hear
the dear, faltering voice murmuring feebly—
"You'll be loving and patient with Gerald, won't you, little
daughter? You'll remember he's younger than you are, and be a good
elder sister to him, won't you, dear?"
Gerald was Angel's brother, eighteen months her junior, and she had
readily given her mother the desired promise. It was not difficult
to be good to Gerald, for she loved him dearly; she had been in the
habit of studying his wishes all her life; and she was capable
of loving without selfishness, asking little in return. "Love feels
no burden; thinks nothing a trouble," was true in her case.
Gerald had been the mother's favourite of the two children; but that
knowledge had not caused Angel one jealous pang. She was too fond
of her brother herself to begrudge him the first share of any one's
affection; and now when the dear, indulgent mother was no longer
there to wait upon him, she faithfully tried to fill her place, and
was his willing slave, darning his socks, mending his clothes,
helping him with his lessons evenings—in fact, being generally
employed either by or for him in one way or another. Angel regarded
herself in the light of a failure. Her father, an artist, 'had named
her Angelica, after Angelica Kauffmann, and had fondly hoped that she
would inherit his talent for painting, and follow in the footsteps
of her namesake; he had anticipated that she would be endowed with
what he called "the artistic temperament;" but Angel had proved
somewhat of a disappointment. She had never evinced the least taste
for drawing, whereas she had early taken to a needle and thimble, and
had learnt to sew, and assist her mother with her household duties
at an age when most children show distinct dislike to such domestic
employments; but to "help mother" had been Angel's greatest pleasure.
Mrs. Willis had had rather a hard married life. She had married a man
of undoubted abilities, but who had unhappily never succeeded
in earning a sufficient income to adequately support his wife and
children. She had believed in him, however, and had never complained
because she had been obliged to work harder than any servant; only,
once, Angel remembered, when something had been said about her
lacking "the artistic temperament," her mother's face had brightened
into a smile, and she had said, "Angel is my right hand. I do not
know what I should do without my little daughter. Perhaps it is
as well she has not 'the artistic temperament' after all!"
Later, when a woman grown, Angel recalled those words, and understood
their meaning. But now, as she sat by the fireside, waiting for her
brother's return from school, her thoughts turned from her dead
mother to her father in his studio at the top of the house, where he
was painting the great picture which he believed was to bring him
fame and make his fortune, and wished she was not such a
disappointment to him. It was indeed sad that she, an artist's
daughter, should be denied "the artistic temperament!"
"It is not that I don't admire beautiful things," the little girl
thought, "because I do. I love flowers, and I should like to live
in a pretty house in the country, and—"
Her reflections were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door, which
subsequently opened to admit the landlady of the house, Mrs. Steer—
a portly, middle-aged woman, clad in a purple merino gown, the front
width of which was plentifully besprinkled with grease spots.
"I'm come to tell you the milkman wants his little account settled,"
she said abruptly, but not unkindly, casting a solicitous glance
at the child. "It ain't no good my speaking to your pa, as you well
know, Miss Angel; for though he listens most politely, all I say goes
in one of his ears and out the other."
"He forgets!" Angel cried hastily, her pale face flushing. "He is
thinking so much about his great picture just at present."
"His great picture!" Mrs. Steer exclaimed, with an incredulous sniff.
"He will have plenty of money when he has sold it," Angel continued
eagerly. "Oh, plenty! He was saying so only last night."
"But it isn't finished yet," Mrs. Steer remarked in matter-of-fact
tones, "and goodness knows when it will be sold; and, meanwhile,
there's the milkman wanting his little account settled. Will you
speak to your pa, Miss Angel, and tell him what I say? Tell him the
milkman positively refuses to supply you with any more milk till he's
had his due."
"I'll be sure to tell father. But supposing he shouldn't have the
money to pay? Will the milkman wait, do you think, if you tell him
about the picture?" was the anxious inquiry.
"I can't say, Miss Angel. You remind your father of the account like
a good child, and perhaps he'll find the money to pay it. As to that
same picture, now, I suppose it's to make all your fortunes, eh?"
Angel nodded smilingly, meeting the landlady's half-pitying,
half-sarcastic look with one so bright and confident that the woman's
eyes fell, and she said kindly—
"Well, my dear, I only trust it may do all you expect. Then, I should
hope your father will be in a position to send you to school."
"Oh yes; won't that be nice? I have never been to school because of
the expense. Mother taught me all I know. It will be delightful when
I do go to school. Think what a lot of friends Gerald has—all friends
he has made at school—whilst I don't know any one!"
"Ah, it's a bit hard on you, my dear! Master Gerald gets all the
cake! I mean," Mrs. Steer proceeded to explain, seeing the little
girl's look of surprised inquiry, "that Master Gerald has the best
of everything. There was never any thought of keeping him home from
school because of the expense."
"Of course not! Father says boys must be educated, and Gerald's so
clever! See what prizes he wins! No wonder father is proud of him!
I wonder if I should ever win a prize? I am afraid not." And Angel
shook her head dubiously.
"You won't forget to speak to your pa about that account, will you?"
Mrs. Steer remarked after a brief pause. "The milkman's an honest,
hardworking man, and can't afford to wait for his money any longer.
As he said to me this morning, he's got to pay for the milk, and
what's he to do if his customers don't pay him? It's hard on the man,
and no mistake!"
"Oh, I am sure it is!" Angel cried distressfully. "I am certain
father will pay him as soon as ever he can. I will speak to him about
it directly!"
Mrs. Steer left the room, and went downstairs satisfied, whilst Angel
sat still listening to her retreating footsteps, making up her mind
that as she had a disagreeable task before her it had better be done
at once. She hated reminding her father of his unpaid bills, though
he always treated her with the utmost kindness; but he always
expressed surprise that people should be in such a hurry for their
money. Why could they not trust him? They would all be paid in due
time.
Angel sighed as she went upstairs to her father's studio, where he
spent most of his days. It was a large, low room at the top of the
house, chosen by Mr. Willis on account of the fine light which shone
through the north window. Though barely furnished, the room was
artistically arranged with a view to appearances as well as comfort;
an easel, supporting a large canvas, stood near the window, and a
bright fire burnt in the grate, before which, reclining in a padded,
wicker, lounge chair was Angel's father. He was a very young-looking
man for his age, which was forty; his eyes were blue and smiling;
his hair, which he wore a trifle longer than is usual nowadays,
was light brown; and his figure slight and graceful.
"Well, Angel, my darling!" he exclaimed, as his little daughter
entered. "Are you come to see how the picture is progressing? I have
not done much to it to-day, for I've been obliged to get on with some
illustrations for a children's book which were ordered weeks ago.
The pot must be kept boiling, you know! I have been hard at work all
the afternoon, but the light has failed, and I'm taking a rest."
Angel did not glance at the canvas on the easel; instead, she drew
a stool to her father's side, and, sitting down, replied gravely—
"I am come to tell you about the milkman, father!"
"The milkman!" he repeated wonderingly. "What about him, my dear?"
"He says he will not let us have any more milk without we pay our
bill! Have you any money, father? Can you pay him, do you think?"
"Pay him? Of course I can—at least, I suppose so! Is the man afraid
I am going to cheat him? I had forgotten we were in his debt.
Dear one, child, how like your mother you are growing! Well, well
I am glad of that! But you must not get into the habit of worrying,
for I cannot bear to see you looking anxious. Why should you trouble?
We shall have plenty of money one of these days, if all's well."
"I know, I know!" Angel cried, lifting her grey eyes to her father's
handsome face and smiling, for she implicitly believed what he said;
"but what are we to do about the milkman's bill, dear father?"
He laughed at her persistency; and rising, went to a desk on a side
table, and turned out the contents of a private drawer.
"There's not so much money here as I thought," he acknowledged
ruefully, "but still, more than enough to pay the importunate
milkman, I dare say. You can tell Mrs. Steer to let me have the
account—I suppose I must have had it before, but I've not the least
idea where I put it—and I'll settle it, at once. How pleased you
look, child!"
She was very pleased, as her glowing face showed plainly. The
household bills weighed upon her now as they had weighed upon her
mother in the years gone by. Poor Mrs. Willis had been a "veritable
Martha," as her husband had sometimes called her; he had never
understood, though he had loved her dearly, why she had allowed
herself to be troubled about many things.
Angel flew downstairs in search of Mrs. Steer, whom she met bearing
a laden tray to one of her lodgers' rooms.
"Will you please let father have the milkman's account and he will
pay it," the little girl said quickly; "he had forgotten about it."
"Oh, indeed!" responded Mrs. Steer. "Then I am glad you reminded him
of it, miss. He shall have the account presently."
"I am going to make toast for tea," Angel explained, as she turned
into her own sitting-room. "Dear me," she added to herself, "how very
glad I am father is going to pay the milkman! I was so afraid
he might not have money enough. It would be horrid to drink tea
without milk; and I expect the poor man wants his money badly too.
Oh, how I wish we never had to go into debt for any thing! Mother
used to say she would be perfectly happy if she never owed any one
a penny. Poor mother!"
Angel took a loaf of bread and a toasting fork from a cupboard in the
sideboard, and proceeded carefully to cut some slices; then she knelt
down on the hearth-rug, and commenced her toast making.
Presently Gerald returned from school, and, flinging his bag of books
and his cap into one corner of the room, came to his sister's side.
He was a fair, good-looking boy, very like his father, and tall for
his age.
"What a jolly fire!" he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hands
towards the glowing coals. "Make a nice lot of toast, Angel, for I'm
as hungry as a hunter. What have you been doing all the afternoon?"
"Oh, much as usual," she answered in rather a depressed tone.
"Darning your socks, and father's—and thinking."
"You're always thinking. I cannot imagine what you find to think
about."
"About mother, mostly. I wonder if she knows how we are getting on,
and how much we miss her. There are some things I should like her
to know—but not all! I like to think she is very happy, never
troubled or sorry, and—oh, I know she is really happy with God, but I
keep on thinking, and wondering—"
"Well, don't!" he interposed affectionately. "You're moped, Angel,
that's what you are."
"Perhaps I am," she acknowledged; "I've been alone all day, and I've
been so dull; and—and the milkman wanted his account settled, and I
had to speak to father about it."
"What a bother it is about money!" the boy exclaimed. "How I wish
we were rich! I was going to ask father if he could let me have a
shilling—I haven't a farthing of my last week's allowance left—do you
think he'll let me have it?"
"He will if he can," Angel replied seriously, "but I'm afraid he is
rather hard up at present. When his picture is finished—"
"Oh, what is the good of talking of that!" Gerald interrupted
impatiently. "The picture may not sell for much, after all! I wish
father was not an artist."
"Gerald!" the little girl exclaimed reproachfully, "how can you speak
so? Mother used to say God had given father his wonderful talent
for painting, and he must use it. Father is a genius. He will paint
a beautiful picture which will be hung in the Royal Academy for every
one to look at, and then some rich man will want to buy it, and offer
father hundreds of pounds if he will sell it to him." Angel was
allowing her imagination to run away with her, and in her excitement
momentarily forgot the work in hand, so that she burnt a corner
of the slice of bread she was toasting. This sobered her somewhat,
and she continued more quietly—
"Then we shall pay all our bills, and live in a nicer place than
this, and father will send me to school; and—oh, Gerald, it seems
too wonderful to ever happen, doesn't it? Think what it would feel
like to have money to pay for everything, and never to be in debt!
How happy we should be!"
Her brother made no reply. His blue eyes were fixed thoughtfully
on the glowing embers in the grate.
"Here comes father," he whispered presently; "will you ask him
some time this evening if he can spare me a shilling? You will,
won't you?"
And Angel promised she would, though she shrank sensitively from
doing so, knowing how short Mr. Willis was of ready money; but it
would have seemed unkind to refuse her brother's coaxing request.