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.