Miss Goodwin's Brother
SUNDAY morning dawned with brilliant sunshine, and promised to be
a perfect summer's day. Angel arose with a bad headache, no doubt
caused by her fit of violent weeping the preceding night; and she was
so pale and heavy-eyed when she appeared at the breakfast-table, that
her father told her she had better remain at home and rest, instead
of going to church. She was glad to do this, and as soon as she was
alone, fetched her Bible, and settled herself comfortably on the sofa
in the dining-room.
"How nice it is that father is strong enough to walk up Haresdown
hill," Angel thought as she opened her Bible at a venture, and
commenced to read. She found it very difficult to prevent her mind
straying from the sacred volume at first to other matters; but
presently her attention was chained.
"And grieve not the Holy Spirit of God, whereby ye are sealed unto
the day of redemption."
"Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil
speaking, be put away from you, with all malice;"
"And be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one
another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
Angel shut her Bible and sighed deeply as she pondered over these
verses. She wondered if her bitterness and wrath last night had
grieved the Holy Spirit of God. She was not feeling nearly so much
incensed against her brother to-day; the marks of his fingers on her
cheek had died out, and her resentment against him was slowly dying
out too. She was beginning to see that though her indignation had
been only just and natural, her refusal of forgiveness, when he had
been really repentant, had been very wrong. If Gerald had been unkind
to her, she had been unkind to him. She had scarcely spoken to him
this morning, and had deliberately ignored and refrained from
responding to the few hesitating remarks he had ventured to address
to her. How wicked she had been! No wonder she had been so dreadfully
unhappy.
Whilst she was meditating thus, Mrs. Vallance knocked at the door,
and entering, inquired how she was.
"Oh, I think my headache's better," Angel answered. "Are you very
busy, Mrs. Vallance?"
"No, miss. Polly put the bedrooms in order before she started
for church, and there's only cold meat for dinner," was the reply.
"I was never in a house where there was less work to be done
on Sundays."
"Uncle Edward says he likes Sunday to be a day of rest for every one.
Do sit down and talk to me for a little while."
Mrs. Vallance willingly complied. She was a good-hearted woman, and
she and Angel often enjoyed a chat together.
"I know what's given you such a bad headache, my dear,"
the housekeeper said shrewdly; "twas the fuss you had with Master
Gerald last night."
"Yes," the little girl acknowledged, flushing, and looking confused.
"But how did you know?" she inquired, with some anxiety.
"I was standing at the top of the back stairs listening to your
raised voices, when suddenly I saw Master Gerald push you out of his
room, and lock the door against you. Haven't you and he made up your
quarrel yet?"
"No," Angel responded, relieved that Mrs. Vallance apparently was
unaware of all that had occurred. "Gerald wanted me to be friends
with him last night, but I wouldn't. He—he served me very badly,
I think."
"I dare say he did, but I'm sure he was sorry afterwards. He's
thoughtless and selfish, perhaps, but I don't like to hear of your
bearing malice in heart, Miss Angel, dear. It's unchristian-like,
that's what it is."
"Yes," Angel sighed, "I know, I know!"
"'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,'" Mrs. Vallance quoted.
"That's a verse from the Bible we all ought to remember."
"I used not to be so unforgiving," Angel said; "but then Gerald never
treated me before as he did last night. I—I can't tell you about it,
Mrs. Vallance; but I think if you knew all, you would say he had
behaved very badly."
"I have no doubt I should; still, however wrong he was, don't let him
believe his sister has turned against him. You must be patient with
him. I know you're that, as a rule, but don't let him tire you out.
Didn't you tell me once that you had promised your mother to be
loving and patient with him?"
"Yes; but I forgot that last night," Angel admitted. "I don't know
how it was, but I never felt so wicked before. I couldn't pray—not
properly."
"No one can pray properly when angry, Miss Angel."
There was a long pause, which Mrs. Vallance at length broke by saying
thoughtfully, "I don't think I ever told you that I lived in service
with Miss Goodwin once, did I?"
"No," the little girl replied, rather astonished at this sudden
change in the conversation; "was that long ago?"
"Yes, miss. I was a slip of a girl of sixteen when I first went
to Myrtle Villa. Miss Goodwin's hair wasn't white at that time,
nor her face wrinkled as it is now; but even then her youth had long
passed. She's very old, you know, for all she's so quick in her
movements, and clear in her intellect in most ways, except that she's
forgotten her age, and seems to have lost count of the flight
of time. Well, as I was saying, I was only sixteen when I commenced
to earn my living, and my mother was so pleased to get me such a good
place, for Miss Goodwin was always counted a rare hand for training
servants, having been accustomed to have a great many in her young
days. Yes," Mrs. Vallance nodded, as Angel's face expressed her
surprise, "she was brought up as a rich man's daughter, but after her
father's death her brother—an only brother he was—squandered all his
money, and most of hers too. Then it was she came to Myrtle Villa
to live, and ten years later I went there as maid-of-all-work. I knew
Miss Goodwin's brother had always been a worry and trouble to her,
and that after spending his fortune he had entered the army as a
private, so of course I never mentioned his name to her until one day
she spoke of him to me, and told me she had had a letter from some
one in India telling her he was dead. What astonished me was that she
didn't seem to be grieving, although I knew she had been very fond
of him, in spite of his bad ways. 'Oh, ma'am!' I cried, not knowing
what to say. 'Is he really dead? Perhaps there is some mistake.'
'Oh no!' she said. 'I will read you the letter.' And so she did.
It had been written by an army chaplain; I forget a great deal
of what was in it, but I shall always remember one part, which spoke
of a message the dying man had sent to Miss Goodwin, and the message
was this: 'Tell my sister that the remembrance of her love has taught
me to understand the love of God. If she had not forgiven me, I do
not believe I could have thought it possible God would.' It was that
message which had brought a joyful look into Miss Goodwin's face, and
prevented her grieving—the certainty that her love had been stronger
than evil, for he had been a bad man, my dear Miss Angel; his sister
knew that well, but she had always loved him, and prayed for him, and
had patience with him, and though the seas had divided them when he
lay dying, yet it had been her influence that had led him to repent
and turn to Jesus. The chaplain wrote that John Goodwin had died
a humble, repentant Christian, and, as my dear mistress said to me,
she had no cause to feel ashamed of him any more. It's an old tale
now, my dear, and I've only told it to you to show you how we ought
to forgive those who trespass against us. Sometimes it's very
difficult, just because those who have injured us are so very dear
to us; we feel on that account they ought to have treated us better;
but, however that may be, we should never cease to love and forgive."
"Oh, poor Miss Goodwin!" Angel cried, her eyes full of tears. "Did
her brother serve her very, very badly, Mrs. Vallance?"
"Yes, miss, I'm bound to admit that he did. He not only spent most
of her money—you know she has as much as she can do to make both ends
meet, and I really think took up gardening herself because she
couldn't afford to pay for a gardener—but he deceived her in many
ways, and never showed the least consideration for her wishes."
"And she forgave him all?"
"Yes, Miss Angel, that I am sure she did."
"I think I understand why you have told me this." Angel said
thoughtfully; "but I am afraid I can never be so good as Miss
Goodwin."
"She is good," Mrs. Vallance agreed heartily. "I often say I never
knew any one like her. I lived with her for more than ten years, and
all that time, though I dare say I continually tried her, for I was
a thoughtless girl, she never said an unkind word to me; and when she
used to reprove me, would do it so gently that it used to make me
a great deal more sorry than if she'd spoken crossly. When I left her
it was to be married, and all through my married life she was my best
friend; then my poor husband died, and, having no children, I thought
I'd go into service again, and Miss Goodwin, hearing your uncle
wanted a housekeeper, advised me to offer for the post. I'd have
liked to have gone back to live with my dear old mistress, but the
servant she has suits her, and—well, here I am, and here I hope
to remain, Miss Angel."
"Oh, I hope so!" the little girl said earnestly.
"Now it's about time I set about laying the dinner-cloth,"
Mrs. Vallance remarked briskly, for the folks will soon be out
of church.
Angel watched the housekeeper's trim, black-gowned figure moving
quietly in and out of the room, and pondered over the story she had
heard from her lips. How thankful Miss Goodwin must be that her love
had never failed her brother.
"I do believe you are feeling much better, are you not, Miss Angel?"
asked Mrs. Vallance, as she glanced at the little girl's thoughtful
face.
"Yes, my headache is nearly gone," Angel replied, with a smile.
She sprang up from the sofa as she spoke, and, taking up her Bible,
ran upstairs to her own room, where she brushed her ruffled hair, and
then stood at the open window, from which she had a view of the road
from the church down the slope of the hill. She meant, at the first
sight of her own people, to hasten to the garden gate to be in
readiness to greet them with a brighter countenance than she had
shown them when they had set out for church two hours before.
Then she remembered that she had not asked God's pardon for the
wicked, resentful temper she had been indulging in, and, sinking on
her knees by the window-sill, she covered her face with her hands and
prayed earnestly. When she rose from her knees she saw a stream
of people descending the hill, and by-and-by was able to distinguish
the forms of those she knew. She noticed that her father and uncle
had joined Mr. and Mrs. Mickle, and that Gerald was following behind
with the Mickle children. She changed her mind about going to the
gate, and determined to remain where she was, for she was shy about
answering the good-natured, anxious questions she knew would be put
to her concerning her headache if she encountered her friends just
then.
So she drew back from the window, and allowed the Mickles time to say
good-bye at the gate before she peeped out again; presently, hearing
footsteps on the gravel path outside, she glanced out, and saw her
father.
"Well, Angel, how's the headache?" he asked, as she appeared
in sight. "Better, eh?"
"Yes, father, thank you," she answered, "much better."
"That's right. We came down the hill with the Mickles. Uncle Edward
wanted them all to come in, but they thought it too near dinner-time.
Yes, you are certainly looking better—a little pale still, but you
make a charming picture, standing there framed in roses and
honeysuckle!"
She laughed, and, leaning her arms upon the window-sill continued
to converse with him. He saw she was her usual cheerful self again,
and was pleased that the shadow had gone from her face; he had
guessed her pain had been as much mental as physical.
"Uncle Edward and Gerald have gone a short distance down the hill
with the Mickles," he informed her. "Come out into the garden
with me, Angel; or, do you think the sun will be too hot for you?
I am considering your poor head, my dear."
"Oh, my head is all right now," she assured him.
She put on a shady hat, and running downstairs joined Mr. Willis,
who had gone around to the front door to meet her. They strolled
about the garden, looking at the flowers, until Mr. Bailey and Gerald
returned. The latter glanced at Angel rather dubiously; but his face
brightened instantly when he met her eyes.
"I'm so glad your headache is gone!" he exclaimed heartily. "It is
gone, isn't it?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"We have had many inquiries to answer about you, Angel," Mr. Bailey
said. "Mrs. Mickle was much concerned to hear you were not well, and
suggested several remedies for headache, which I see I need not give
you now. You are looking almost yourself again."
Before going into the house to dinner, Angel seized an opportunity
to draw her brother aside out of hearing of the others, and said
earnestly: "Gerald, will you forgive me for being so unkind and
ill-tempered last night? I know you didn't mean to hurt me, and—and—"
"Oh, Angel," the boy interposed, "it only served me right! It was
very wrong of me to hit you. It was cowardly, and I don't wonder you
were so angry. I'll never do it again—never! I feel so ashamed
about it. You do forgive me, don't you?"
"Yes, indeed I do! I didn't last night, and—oh, I was so unhappy—
simply wretched!"
"I was wretched too," Gerald admitted. "I knew I had behaved badly,
and it was dreadful to think you wouldn't make friends with me.
But it's all right now, isn't it?"
Angel nodded. The rest of the Sunday passed peacefully and happily,
the sister and brother being on the best of terms with each other.
They spent the afternoon together in the garden, and in the evening
went to church with their father and uncle. Gerald had a knack
of dismissing his troubles from his mind if they were not directly
pressing upon him; and Angel, now that she was at peace with her
brother, was perfectly happy once more.
The little girl made no mention of the story she had heard from
Mrs. Vallance, concerning Miss Goodwin's brother, to any one; but she
pondered over it a great deal, and her liking for the old lady
deepened into reverent affection as she thought of the trouble her
brother must have been to her, and how her patient love had triumphed
in the end.