Five Months Later
IT was a December afternoon, and unusually mild for the season. The
weather had been showery for days, and though the rain had kept off
for several hours, heavy clouds still floated swiftly across the sky,
driven by a westerly wind, throwing fleeting shadows over the emerald
green meadows on the slope of Haresdown hill, and now and then
obscuring the soft, pale rays of the setting sun.
In the porch of the old parish church were seated Dinah and Dora
Mickle with Angel Willis. They had been speaking of the latter's
first visit to Wreyford with Mr. Bailey a year before; but now the
little girls had hushed their voices to listen to the glad, clear
notes of a robin, perched on a tombstone not more than a yard or so
from the porch. The sweet songster warbled happily for several
minutes, by no means disquieted by his audience; then, his cheery
song concluded, he spread his wings and flew away.
"I wonder if he was singing for our benefit," Angel said, smiling at
the thought; "he seemed to be watching us with his sharp dark eyes—
the dear thing!"
"Yes, so he did," Dinah replied. "Robins are my favourite birds,
because they sing in the winter when all the others are silent. Let
me see, what was it we were talking about? Oh, I know! Yes, it must
have been about a year ago when we first met you, Angel; I remember
so well father calling me downstairs and introducing me to you."
"Yes. And he told you to amuse me, and give me some tea," Angel broke
in eagerly; "and, oh, how shy I felt when you led me upstairs, and
into the dining-room!"
"Yes!" Dora cried; "and Tom laughed at you, and afterwards Gilbert
was nasty because he fancied you were staring at him because he was
lame and walked with crutches. I'm afraid you didn't like us much."
"There you are mistaken. I liked you and Dinah, you were so kind; and
I think I loved your mother from the very first moment I saw her.
Little did I think then that I should soon get to know you so well,
or that my home would be at Wreyford too!"
"It was that very day Dora and I discovered Haresdown House was
taken," Dinah remarked reflectively; "I remember we had been for a
walk, and had rested here just as we are doing this afternoon. I had
been telling Dora all about poor old Ezekiel Hassal, who was parish
clerk here in Oliver Cromwell's time—you know his story—and as we
were going home we noticed the board had been taken down from the
garden of Haresdown House. Then, when we reached home, Gilbert told
us the place had been bought by an Australian gentleman, and whilst
he was explaining to us what you and your uncle were like, we looked
out of the window, and saw you and Mr. Bailey and father at the
garden gate. Oh, Angel, how you have altered since then!"
"Have I?" Angel exclaimed in surprise. "How? In what way do you
mean?"
"You've grown, and become plump and rosy. You used to be such a pale
little thing, with large grey eyes that looked too big for your
face," Dinah responded promptly.
"Tom said they were owly, like a young bird's," Dora said, gazing at
her friend scrutinously; "but they're not a bit like that now, are
they, Dinah?"
"No, indeed! Then, you had such an old-fashioned way of talking,
as though you were a grownup person. I remember you told mother you
had not 'the artistic temperament'; I have so often wondered what you
meant by that.
"Was it an odd thing to say? Yes, I dare say it was." Angel laughed
merrily, then became suddenly grave. "When I was a little girl,"
she said thoughtfully— "oh, long before my mother died!—father used
to put a pencil in my hand, and try to get me to draw, but I never
had the least idea about copying anything, and he would look so
disappointed. One day I overheard mother and father talking about me,
and father said 'She has not the artistic temperament.' Of course
I had no idea what he meant, but I somehow understood from the sound
of his voice that he was sorry. When I grew older, and knew I had
been called Angelica after Angelica Kauffmann, the painter, I began
to see why father couldn't help being a little disappointed, and I
never forgot his words; it seemed to me to be dreadful that an
artist's daughter shouldn't have 'the artistic temperament.' I used
to trouble about it, but I don't now. If I can't draw and paint,
I can sew, and do other things."
"Yes, indeed!" Dinah agreed; "and you are getting on so well with
your music. It's a pity there's no piano at Haresdown House!"
A smile crept into Angel's eyes; she hesitated a moment before
replying.
"I can't help thinking we're to have a piano soon," she said
confidentially, "because the other day I came upon father and Uncle
Edward suddenly in the dining-room, and they were looking over an
advertisement list of pianos; they put it away immediately they saw
me, but not before I had caught sight of it. Neither of them said
a word about it, so, of course, I didn't; but, oh, it would be
splendid to have a piano! Gerald keeps on saying, 'What a very great
pity it is that we have no piano at Haresdown House for you
to practise upon!' I know there must be a reason for his harping
on the point like that."
"It's very evident your people can't keep a secret!" Dinah exclaimed,
with an amused laugh. "Well, I suppose we ought to be moving
homewards, though it's very comfortable and sheltered here, isn't it?
How lovely everything looks when the sun shines out! Gilbert says the
shadows are always so beautiful on a showery day! Oh, by the way,
Angel, have you seen the picture Gilbert has painted for Miss
Goodwin?"
"Oh yes! She called father and me in when we were passing Myrtle
Villa yesterday, and showed it to us. I liked it so much, and Miss
Goodwin seemed simply delighted with it, and so flattered that
Gilbert had painted it on purpose for her."
"Gilbert hoped she would be pleased with it, he had heard her admire
the old bridge over the river so often, and guessed she would like
a picture of it. But what was your father's opinion about it?" Dinah
asked anxiously.
"He said it showed great talent, and that he was proud of his pupil."
"I am so glad!" the sisters exclaimed in a breath; and Dora added,
"I shall tell Gilbert that!"
"He will be pleased, because he thinks so much of Mr. Willis'
opinion," said Dinah. "Do you know, Angel, father has promised to let
Gilbert be an artist if he really wants to be one. Isn't it good
of father? He wished Gilbert to be a lawyer; but mother thinks
if Gilbert has a talent for painting, he ought to use it; and if he's
an artist, his lameness won't matter! I don't know if it would matter
much if he was a lawyer," she added, "because he's not nearly so
sensitive about it as he was. He says since that night when his
crutch was the means of saving Dora's life he's never regretted being
lame."
"Dear old Gilbert!" the younger sister exclaimed softly. "Angel,
do you know Reginald Hope is at home again?" she questioned after
a brief silence.
Angel shook her head. At the commencement of the autumn term Dr. Hope
had sent his son to a strict boarding-school, as he had threatened
to do. Dora proceeded to explain that her brothers had met their old
school-fellow on the previous day, and had had quite a long
conversation with him, during which they had noticed that he had
changed a good deal.
"Gilbert says he is improved, and he told the boys he had given up
betting altogether," the little girl said in conclusion.
"I only hope he spoke the truth!" Dinah exclaimed severely.
"Gilbert thinks so," Dora reminded her sister, "and he does not make
many mistakes," she added, for she had great faith in her elder
brother's astuteness.
As the children passed out of the churchyard by the lych-gate, Dinah
called the attention of the others to two figures ahead of them.
With a throb of apprehension at her heart, Angel recognized her
brother and Reginald Hope.
The boys kept ahead all the way, but on reaching Haresdown House
the elder proceeded down the hill; and Gerald, looking back, saw his
sister and her friends. Dinah and Dora only paused a few seconds
at the gate to say "good-bye," after which they went on their way,
whilst Angel and her brother slowly walked towards the house.
"You need not look so serious," Gerald said gravely, noticing Angel's
clouded face; "I've done no harm in speaking to Hope. Father wouldn't
wish me to cut him altogether!"
"Oh no, but—"
"I shall tell father I've seen him. I met him by chance; his school
broke up several days ago. Can't you trust me, even yet, Angel?"
he asked a little wistfully.
"Reginald Hope had always so much influence over, you," she said
half-apologetically. "I want to trust you, Gerald, but I can't help
being afraid for you! Can you trust yourself? Are you sure you won't
allow Reginald Hope to—to—" She broke off abruptly. Gerald sighed,
but suddenly his countenance brightened, and he answered—
"No, but I can trust God, and that's better than trusting myself,
isn't it?"
"Well said, my boy!" exclaimed a hearty voice close by, and turning
hastily the children saw Mr. Bailey, who had crossed the grass and
approached them from behind. "Come indoors," he commanded, "and see
what has arrived this afternoon during your absence."
He opened the front door, and they followed him into the hall, where
Mr. Willis joined them, looking "as smiling as a bundle of chips," as
Gerald whispered to his sister, who laughed at the absurd comparison.
"Now, shut your eyes, Angel," Mr. Bailey said, repressed excitement
in his voice, "and don't open them till I tell you may. Give me your
hand!"
The little girl was astonished, but she closed her eyes obediently,
and Mr. Bailey led her into the dining-room. There was a brief
silence; a movement at the far end of the room, and then a most
discordant crash, evidently a few notes of a piano inadvertently
struck, followed by a reproachful exclamation from Mr. Bailey—
"Oh, John, how did you manage to be so clumsy!"
Angel opened her eyes, and saw her father standing by the side of a
piano, which he had evidently just opened.
"I am so sorry, Uncle Edward," he said somewhat ruefully, "I was
trying to open the piano quietly so that Angel should not hear, and I
touched the notes with my elbow. It was indeed clumsy of me."
"Never mind!" Mr. Bailey, returned laughing, as he dropped Angel's
hand and with a cry of pleasure she sprang to the piano's side. "But
I thought the arrangement was for you to astonish Angel with a flood
of melody!—Well, child, what do you think of my latest purchase?
I hope it is a good instrument!"
"It looks a beauty," Angel answered, as she examined the pretty
cottage piano in its rosewood case, and touched the notes softly.
"Sit down and try it, then you will be a better judge," Mr. Bailey
said, watching her flushed, happy face with smiling eyes.
Angel complied, and played one of the simple tunes she had learnt
at school, whilst the others stood by listening.
"It is a beautiful piano!" she declared enthusiastically.
"It is for you," Mr. Bailey told her, "for your very own, my dear.
A present from your old uncle!"
"For me!" the little girl cried. "For my own? Oh, father do you hear
what he says?"
"Certainly I do. You are very fortunate to have such a present given
you," Mr. Willis answered earnestly.
"Oh, I am, indeed! Uncle Edward, I can never tell you how much
I thank you," she said in trembling tones, and with heartfelt
gratitude, throwing her arms around Mr. Bailey's neck and kissing
him; "but I do thank you very, very much! I knew you must be thinking
of buying a piano, because I saw you and father looking over a list
of pianos one day; but I never thought you meant to give me one!
Fancy, my having a piano of my very own!"
"Listen to that now!" Mr. Bailey said to the others. "We didn't keep
our secret as well as we imagined we were doing. Angel, you are too
sharp for us."
"Gerald, did you know it was to be mine—really mine?" she asked,
turning her bright, excited face to her brother.
"Yes, and I'm so glad," he responded heartily. "You'll get on
splendidly now you've got a piano to practise on."
There was no jealousy in the boy's heart as he spoke; he sympathized
with his sister's pleasure as he certainly would not have done some
months before, a fact his father, who was watching him with secret
anxiety, noted with a sense of relief and gladness.
Later in the evening Gerald told how he had met Reginald Hope that
afternoon, and repeated the conversation which had passed between
them. It appeared Reginald Hope had informed him he had given up
betting, and had said he was sorry for having induced him to do what
was wrong.
"Of course, he did influence me a great deal," Gerald acknowledged,
his cheeks turning crimson as he thought of the past, "but he could
not have done it if I had not been a foolish, wicked boy, and I told
him so. He would argue that it was all his fault, but I know it
wasn't. Hope seems altered somehow."
"That's what the Mickle boys say!" Angel exclaimed. "They consider
he has improved."
"He was always very nice to talk to," Gerald said thoughtfully, "very
amusing; I don't think I ever knew any one who could be nicer than
Hope when he liked."
"Let us trust he has seen the error of his ways," Mr. Bailey remarked
gravely. "I trust he is learning to be manly and straightforward, and
will live to be a comfort to his father yet."
"What can I say to make you understand how happy you have made me,
Uncle Edward?" Angel whispered after she had given Mr. Bailey her
good-night kiss. "You are so very good to me, and indeed to us all."
"I love to see you happy, child," he replied, as he returned her
caress. "What a big girl you're growing," he continued, holding her
at arm's length, and surveying her with smiling, affectionate eyes;
"no one would recognize you for the delicate-looking little maiden
who welcomed me home a year ago! I can always picture you as I saw
you, on the stairs, gazing down at me with great eyes—"
"'Owly eyes,' Tom Mickle said they were," Angel broke in; "the Mickle
girls were telling me so to-day."
They all laughed merrily at that, and then the young folks went off
to bed, Gerald racing Angel up the stairs, and, of course, arriving
first at the top. Needless to say, Angel's last thought that night
was of her new possession; and when she fell asleep, it was to dream
pleasantly of strains of sweet music, melodious and soul-stirring,
which came from a certain cottage piano in a rosewood case.