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.