Gerald's Repentance
GERALD, as Dr. Hope had predicted, was quite well in health on the
following day, though exceedingly depressed and unhappy; but Dora had
taken a severe chill, so that Mr. Willis and Mr. Bailey had returned
before she was well again. They reached Haresdown House in the
afternoon whilst the young folks were at school; and, consequently,
they had heard the story of Gerald's disobedience and its
consequences before Angel and Gerald came home.
Mr. Willis' first words to his son were somewhat of an astonishment
to both children, who had anticipated that he would be very angry and
severe in his mode of punishment. Gerald had been dreading the
meeting with his father for days; and Angel had been looking forward
to it with little less perturbation.
"I know all that has happened during my absence," Mr. Willis said
gravely, as the guilty boy stood trembling before him. "We met
Mr. Mickle as we came through the town, and he told us of your
accident the other night. I promised him I would not punish you,
for he believes the anxiety you have suffered on Dora's account to be
sufficient punishment, and he begged me not to be harsh with you.
I do not think I was ever that to either of my children. Perhaps I
have erred in trusting you too far, but I am not likely to make that
mistake again."
Gerald hung his head in shame at the sound of reproach in his
father's voice; he had expected anger—punishment—but not this.
"Oh, father, you cannot think how sorry I am!" he murmured
contritely, his eyes filling with tears.
"Yes, I think I can. But your sorrow would have been of little
account if poor little Dora Mickle had lost her life. Say no more
on the subject now; it makes one shudder to contemplate what might
have been the results of your deliberate disobedience. I will have
a talk with you by-and-by. Your uncle and I hoped to spend a happy
evening, and I do not wish it to be spoilt on your account. We will
speak of something else."
"First of all, let us tell the children about their old friend,
Mrs. Steer," Mr. Bailey suggested. He had been observing Gerald
whilst his father had been speaking to him, and was much struck
by his haggard appearance and the hunted look in his eyes. "Tell them
of our visit to her, John."
"Oh yes, do, father!" Angel cried, her troubled face brightening
somewhat. It was a great relief to know that Mr. Willis did not
intend to punish Gerald, and her spirits accordingly began to rise.
"Dear Mrs. Steer! How kind she used to be to me! How did you find
her? Was she glad to see you? Had she many lodgers? Was—"
"Oh, stop!" Mr. Willis exclaimed. "Not so many questions at once.
We found her just as ever—she wore a purple gown, I cannot say if it
was the same we used to know—and I really think she was glad to see
us."
"Especially to see you, John," Mr. Bailey interposed. "I thought she
would never cease shaking hands with you."
"She really seemed delighted," Mr. Willis continued, "and declared
I was looking remarkably well. She asked all sorts of kind questions
about you, Angel—if you went to school, if you had grown, and how you
liked the country. We were with her quite a long while, she had so
much to say; she even inquired about my work, and wanted to know
if the picture which was to make my fortune was finished."
"What did you say?" Angel questioned, flushing a little.
"Of course I told her it was not, but I hoped it would be some day.
She shook her head at that, and remarked that pictures were all very
well in their way, but no one ought to waste much time upon them."
"Oh, father!" Angel exclaimed; then, seeing he was smiling, she broke
into a laugh. "Mrs. Steer doesn't understand," she said, "but she
means well, and she's a good old soul."
Gerald was wondering if their old landlady had made no mention
of him, when his father turned to him with the remark—
"She was very interested in all I told her about you, too, Gerald.
Indeed, I believe she is really fond of both of you children."
After tea Angel took her father out to look at her own garden, to see
how the geraniums had come into flower. She took the opportunity
to speak to him about her brother.
"He is so unhappy," she told him; "ever since the night of the
accident he has not been like the same boy. I think he is grieving
very much. He has been to inquire for Dora every day, and yesterday
he saw Mrs. Mickle, and they had quite a long chat together. I don't
know what they talked about, but when he came home he said to me,
'Angel, I've been a worse boy than you know, and when I've told
father everything he'll never love or trust me again.' And, oh, he
looked so white and wretched," the little girl concluded, almost in
tears herself.
"Nothing Gerald has done could alter my affection for him,"
Mr. Willis replied gravely, "but trusting him is another matter.
I can see he is miserable; I am sure that is not to be wondered at.
There is no excuse for his behaviour."
"I know that, father, and I think he knows it himself."
Presently Mr. Bailey and Gerald joined the others in the garden.
Gerald glanced at his father doubtfully; he dreaded to be left alone
with him, and at the same time longed to get over the confession
he had fully made up his mind to make. Mr. Willis sat down on a
garden seat, and when Angel and Mr. Bailey strolled away in the
direction of the kitchen garden, Gerald timidly approached his
father, and ventured to place himself by his side.
"Father," he said huskily, "I have something to say to you."
He paused, as though unable to proceed further. Mr. Willis turned
to him, and, as he remained silent, said gently—
"I suppose you want to ask my forgiveness, Gerald?"
"No," the boy replied, "no, not yet—not until you know all. Oh, how
shall I tell you? Oh, what will you think of me?"
"Try not to excite yourself," his father said soothingly, pitying his
distress. "If you have anything to confess to me, I am ready to hear
it. Confide in me, my son, but let me have the whole truth."
"Yes," Gerald cried. "I am sick of lies. Oh, father, I have been so
wicked—so awfully, awfully wicked!"
Mr. Willis scanned the boy's pale countenance with some anxiety.
It was true that Gerald had been much worried about Dora; but in
addition to that trouble had been the fears he had suffered from
having been unable to restore the sovereign he had stolen. The coin
was still hidden in his bedroom chimney, for he had never had an
opportunity of putting it back in the little tortoise-shell box,
as Mrs. Vallance had not left the key in the lock of her desk again.
Remorse had preyed upon his mind and left its traces in dark circles
around his blue eyes, and in a nervousness of manner which was
painful to witness.
"Tell me what you have done," Mr. Willis said gravely; "don't be
afraid of me, Gerald," he added quickly, as the boy appeared to cower
beneath his steady gaze.
"I will, I will tell you! Oh, father, will you quite hate me,
I wonder? I have spent my money in betting, and—and—I am a thief."
Mr. Willis turned perfectly white, and a look of alarm crossed
his face.
"Explain what you mean," he said, laying his hand on his son's
shoulder. "Don't spare yourself—or me. I must know everything.
Tell me."
And Gerald did tell him. It was a miserable tale—difficult to relate,
most painful to hear—of weakness and moral cowardice leading to
deception and worse, but it was told at last. Dead silence followed.
"Does your sister know all this?" Mr. Willis asked at length.
"No, no! She guesses that I have been betting, but she knows nothing
about the money I took."
"Gerald, you must give it back at once. That is the first thing
to be done. You must tell Mrs. Vallance exactly how it was you took
it, and restore it to her.'
"Oh, father!"
"You assure me you are truly sorry,"' Mr. Willis proceeded, his voice
full of pain, "and that you repented of your sinful act the very
night you stole the money, and would have replaced it if you had not
found the key gone and the desk locked. You must explain all this
to Mrs. Vallance. Go and get the sovereign, and bring it
to my studio."
Gerald knew he must obey. Five minutes later he entered the studio,
and found his father waiting for him. Mr. Willis rang the bell the
instant his son appeared, and requested Polly, who answered the
summons, to ask Mrs. Vallance to spare him a few minutes of her time.
When the housekeeper came in, Mr. Willis gave her a chair, saying
Gerald had something to tell her; and Gerald, in a low, shamed tone,
commenced his tale afresh, but, to his intense surprise, he had not
proceeded far before he was stopped.
"I know all about it, Master Gerald," Mrs. Vallance interposed,
her eyes fixed on the sovereign, which he had placed in her hand.
"I missed the money the same evening you took it. I found I had left
the key in my desk, and when I counted the coins in my little
tortoise-shell box—it was Mr. Bailey's money, by the way, what he had
given me for housekeeping expenses and in case of emergencies—I found
I was a sovereign short. Well, I knew only two people had had an
opportunity of touching it—you and Polly. I thought Polly was honest,
and, at the same time, it did not appear likely you would have
touched it, so I hardly knew what to do. After pondering over the
matter a long while, I decided to hold my tongue about my loss, for I
couldn't bear the idea of accusing any one wrongfully. So I kept
watch, and felt very uneasy, I can tell you. I couldn't find out
whether it was you or Polly who had taken the money. Indeed, I am
thankful to know the truth, for I've been very uncomfortable and
troubled."
"I should have put it back, only you took the key out of your desk,"
Gerald said eagerly, "I went down in the night, and it was I who
dropped the candle-grease over the stair-carpets—not Polly. You can't
think how mean and wicked I've felt, Mrs. Vallance. I hope you'll
forgive me for prying into your desk, and—and—" He broke down
completely, and hid his face in his hands.
"I do forgive you, Master Gerald. And, if you please, we'll never
mention this matter again. I shall never speak of it to a living
soul, I promise you that. I can see you're really sorry; and I shall
pray that God's Holy Spirit may change your heart so that you may be
better able to withstand temptation for the future."
Saying which, Mrs. Vallance rose and quietly left the room, shutting
the door after her. By-and-by Gerald lifted his head and glanced
at his father, who was watching him with an expression of mingled
sorrow and affection in his eyes.
"Oh, father," sobbed the boy, "do you really love me still?"
"Yes, my son, certainly I do; and God loves you too, in spite of all,
for His love is stronger and further reaching than mine. Deeply as
you have sinned against Him, He is ready with His forgiveness if you
truly repent. Confess your sins to your Father in Heaven."
Mr. Willis paused. He walked up and down the room for some minutes,
much agitated. The voices of Angel and Mr. Bailey were heard in the
garden outside.
"Will you tell them—everything?" Gerald asked in a choked voice.
"I want them to know—and, oh, father, don't look so unhappy! I will
really try to be a better boy."
"I hope you will," Mr. Willis responded, with a deep sigh. "Think
what a grief your conduct would have been to your dear mother if she
had lived."
"Oh, I know! I know!" the boy cried distressfully; and, overcome
afresh with grief and remorse, he rushed out of the studio, and ran
upstairs to his own room.
Flinging himself on his knees by the bedside, he gave way to his
sorrow. If his father had not been so kind, if he had reproached him
and refused him forgiveness, he would not have been so brokenhearted
as he was now. How good his father had been to him!
By-and-by he tried to pray. He remembered how Angel had once said
to him, "When we do anything wrong, it's really against God we sin,"
and he prayed earnestly. "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." As he prayed a sense of comfort stole
into his sore heart; he felt that God had forgiven him.
When the supper bell rang he rose from his knees, and after bathing
his tear-stained face and brushing his ruffled hair, went downstairs
into the dining-room, where he found the others seated at table.
Angel rose the minute he entered, and putting her arms around his
neck, kissed him with trembling lips. He took her caress as an
earnest of her unchanging love.
"Has father told you?" he whispered, noticing that she was very pale,
and had evidently been crying.
"Yes," she answered.
"Everything? About my betting, and the money I stole from
Mrs. Vallance?"
She nodded. Mr. Bailey, who was quietly eating his supper, now lifted
his eyes from his plate, and beckoned to Gerald to take the chair
next to him.
"Sit down, my boy," he said kindly; "your father has told us
everything you wished us to know. You must have been very unhappy
lately, with so much on your mind. But you are going to turn over a
new leaf. You have been on the wrong road. Thank God you can retrace
your footsteps and start afresh—not in your own strength this time."
Gerald cast a grateful glance at his uncle, who during supper did his
very best to keep up the conversation which, however, in spite of his
efforts, continually flagged. Mr. Willis looked depressed, and very
different from his usually cheery self; Angel had great difficulty
in restraining her tears; whilst Gerald was fully conscious that he
had quite spoilt the happiness and pleasure of his father and uncle's
home-coming.
The following morning Mr. Willis gave his son the money to pay all he
owed to Reginald Hope, so he was able to free himself from debt at
last, and returned home from school with a lighter heart than he had
had for many weeks. He had another cause for which to be thankful—Tom
Mickle had told him that Dora was much better, and able to rise from
bed. In the course of a few days she was about again, and by the time
the summer holidays arrived, had regained her health and strength.
Angel and Gerald had one long talk together concerning his
delinquencies; he confided in her how he had been led into the path
of deception and lies, and promised her to speak the truth and act
honourably for the future. Angel thought he meant to keep his word,
and she was right. He knew it would be some time before his relatives
and friends would regain their faith in him, and the thought that
they were unable to trust him was very bitter and humiliating.
The poor boy was learning by experience that evil-doing always brings
its own punishment, and that we are bound to bear the consequences
of our sins, even though we have repented and obtained forgiveness.
Hitherto, Gerald had always thought of himself first, but now he was
endeavouring to be thoughtful for others, especially with the sister
who had borne with him so long. The Mickle children said amongst
themselves that Gerald Willis was much nicer than he used to be, and
accordingly treated him with far more geniality than they had done
in the days when they had constantly been brought face to face with
his selfishness and his determination to insure his own comfort and
pleasure at any cost.
Gerald had a hard battle to fight in the new path he had solemnly
vowed to himself to tread; his old associates at school were not
easily dropped, and the new ones he tried to make were shy of his
advances. Many were the temptations that beset him; but those who
loved him knew that he would not fall by the way, for he had gone
for assistance to the one Friend who never fails us: he had found
Jesus, and no longer stood alone.