Chapter XIV: The Fate of the Robins

"WHO is going to market with me?" Mr. Bailey inquired as he entered the dining-room at Haresdown House, where Angel and Gerald were holding an animated conversation. "Mrs. Vallance has given me a number of commissions to execute for her, so I shall take the carriage, and bring home my purchases. I thought a drive would do your father good, but it appears he is expecting Gilbert Mickle here this morning. You can both come with me if you like."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Edward," they replied; but Gerald added, "I promised to meet Reginald Hope this morning; however, that doesn't matter. I would much rather go to market. I can see Hope any day."

"Nevertheless, if you have made an appointment with him you had better keep it," Mr. Bailey said gravely. "I never encourage any one to break his word."

Gerald's face fell. Ten minutes later he watched his sister and uncle drive off in the pony-carriage-with a decidedly envious heart, and stood at the front gate gazing disconsolately down the hill until he saw Gilbert Mickle appear in sight. If the lame boy had not observed him, he would have retreated; but Gilbert, apparently guessing his intention, frustrated it by shouting to him to wait. Now Gerald had a reason of his own for not desiring to encounter Gilbert, and his countenance expressed decided uneasiness as he opened the gate for the other to enter.

"Look here," said Gilbert, fixing a stern, accusing gaze on the younger boy's face, "how dared you interfere with that robin's nest?"

"I didn't!" Gerald cried quickly. "I never touched it!"

Gilbert's eyes flashed ominously, and he restrained his rising anger with an effort as he replied—

"Then you must have meddled with the young ones. I know you must have, though no one saw you. What a young idiot Tom must have been to show you the nest! How dared you touch the birds—you—you meddlesome imp?"

"I didn't do any harm," Gerald said sulkily; "and you've no right to speak to me like that, and call me names. I won't stand it. I suppose you think you can bully me as you like, just because you're older than I am? Besides, I didn't hurt the young birds; I only took them out of the nest to look at them, and I put them back again as gently as possible."

"You killed them!" Gilbert declared indignantly.

"I didn't!" Gerald retorted hotly. "How can you tell such a big lie? I'm not going to stand here and let you talk to me like this. I never hurt the young birds, I tell you, and you're very wicked to say I did. Tom never told you so, I'm sure."

"No, Tom did not see you touch them; but he remembers you went back to look at them again when he was at the other side of the garden. Perhaps you didn't mean to hurt them," Gilbert proceeded, "but you killed them nevertheless. Surely you must know that if birds are taken from their nest they never settle in properly again? This morning, when Dora went to look at the young robins, she found them all dead on the ground, having fallen out of the nest. So you see, indirectly, you did kill them."

Gerald looked really shocked, for he had had no intention of doing harm when his curiosity had prompted him to take the half-fledged birds out of their nursery; he had promised Tom not to touch them, but he had thought it would never be known he had broken his word. He now recalled the anxiety the Mickle children had all evinced that the robins might save their brood, and he was conscious that they would view his conduct very unfavourably.

"I am so sorry," he said in a low voice. "I never meant to hurt them— truly, I did not. I would not have taken them out of the nest if I had known what would happen."

"Tom said you solemnly promised not to touch them."

Gerald made no response, but his crimson face plainly expressed that Tom had spoken the truth.

"What a young storyteller you are!" Gilbert exclaimed contemptuously. "I could understand your interfering with the robins if you had not given your word not to do so, because you did not know the mischief you were doing; but it was so fearfully dishonourable to deliberately break your promise in that way."

Gerald felt bitterly ashamed of himself at that moment, but he considered the lame boy was taking too much upon himself in speaking to him in such scornful, reproving tones.

"I believe your father would be awfully mad with you if he knew how you have behaved," Gilbert proceeded, "and Mr. Bailey too. I—"

"Oh!" Gerald interrupted in an alarmed voice, "you won't tell them, will you? You can't mean to get me into a row! Father would be so angry if he knew. He isn't often angry with me, but when he is put out, he can be awfully stern."

"I won't tell. I'm not a sneak, I hope."

"I am so very sorry I touched the birds," Gerald said earnestly, "I am indeed. Do believe me."

Gilbert looked searchingly at his companion's disturbed countenance, and met a decidedly ashamed look in the bright blue eyes, which assured him that Gerald was, at any rate, now speaking the truth. He hastened to reply—

"I do believe you. No one guessed why the young birds fell out of their nest except Tom and me, and now I know how it was I promise you I will not tell any one but Tom. Dora was awfully upset when she found the young birds dead, and Dinah was sorry too, but they neither of them imagined how it happened, and Tom won't let them know if I persuade him not to. I say, don't meddle with birds' nests again."

"All right, I won't," Gerald answered gratefully. "It's awfully kind of you not to want to get me into a row. You won't tell Angel, will you?"

"No, but the girls are sure to speak to her about the birds. I do wish you hadn't touched them."

"I wish I hadn't."

"Is Mr. Willis in?" Gilbert inquired after a short pause.

"Yes, he's in the studio, expecting you. Shall I tell him you're here?"

"Oh no, thank you. I won't trouble you to go back to the house. I've only brought some of my sketches to show your father; they wouldn't interest you."

The lame boy, sensitive on the subject of his work, had no desire to exhibit it to Gerald. "You were going out, weren't you?" he asked.

"Yes, presently; I'm going to meet Reginald Hope."

"Reginald Hope!" Gilbert echoed in a surprised tone. "I didn't know you knew him. He goes to the Grammar School, and is in my form."

"Then you know him well?" Gerald questioned eagerly. "He's a jolly fellow, isn't he?"

"Humph! I dare say he may be in some people's estimation. I never found him so."

"Don't you like him?"

"No."

"Perhaps he doesn't like you?" Gerald suggested, with a knowing smile.

"Very likely not."

"I wish you'd tell me why you don't like him."

Gilbert looked at his companion, and hesitated a moment before replying—

"I don't know why I should give you my reasons for disliking Hope. You may go and tell him what I say; but there, I don't care if you do! I dislike and mistrust him because he's not straight."

"Not straight? What do you mean?"

"He is untruthful; he uses bad language; and he bets. Have you seen much of him?"

"No, I have only met him a few times. I liked him—rather."

"I wouldn't have much to do with him if I were you. I don't think he's the sort of fellow your father would like. I shouldn't care for Tom to be very friendly with him. I don't call him a gentleman."

"His father is a doctor, isn't he?"

"Yes, and Reginald is his only son. Dr. Hope is very popular in Wreyford, and he's a very good sort of man, but he lets Reginald have his own way in everything."

Gerald would have liked to ask more questions about the boy whose companionship he found so fascinating, but Gilbert moved away towards the house, thus bringing the conversation to an end.

Meanwhile, Mr. Bailey and Angel had reached the market, and were busily engaged in making their purchases. It was an amusement to the little girl to hear the market-women and hucksters gossiping with each other, and she lingered around the stalls, listening to the bargaining going on between vendors and purchasers. Mr. Bailey had bought some poultry, and was turning his attention to dairy produce, when Angel felt a light touch on her arm, and turned to find Dora Mickle at her side.

"I'm with mother," Dora explained; and glancing around Angel saw Mrs. Mickle standing before a stall a few yards distant. "I was looking out for you, Angel, because I have something to tell you."

"What is it?" Angel asked a trifle anxiously, noticing with dismay that Dora's blue eyes were full of unshed tears.

"The young robins are dead."

"Dead! Oh, how dreadful! What killed them?"

"I don't know," Dora replied, shaking her head mournfully; "it couldn't have been a cat or a rat, because then the birds would have been taken away. This morning I went out to have a peep at them, and they had fallen out of the nest, and were lying dead on the ground. The mother was weeping close by. Oh, it made my heart ache to listen to her! Isn't it sad?"

"Yes, indeed it is," Angel agreed, her own eyes slightly moist as she thought of the poor mother-bird's grief. "Oh, I am sorry! Gerald was telling me about the young robins this morning. Tom showed them to him yesterday, you know. They were half-fledged, were they not?"

"Yes, in a few days more they would have flown. Father thinks some one must have interfered with them, but who would do that? Come and speak to mother now."

Mrs. Mickle, having finished her purchases, turned to shake hands with Mr. Bailey and his little niece, remarking as she did so to the former—

"I believe Gilbert has gone to Haresdown House this morning to show some of his sketches to Mr. Willis. It is very kind of your nephew to take an interest in my boy. Gilbert makes so few friends."

"But those he makes he keeps, I expect, does he not?" Mr. Bailey asked. "I thought so," he continued, as she assented with a smile; "his friendship is accordingly worth having. He and my nephew seem to get on together; they have tastes in common, no doubt."

"Although Gilbert has known Mr. Willis so short a while, he has formed a very high opinion of him," Mrs. Mickle said earnestly; "but I hope he will not be too constant a visitor at Haresdown House for I fear your nephew may find his society irksome. Gilbert is not always a very genial companion."

"I defy any one to be ungenial with John!"

Mrs. Mickle laughed. She had found the artist, on the few occasions on which she had met him, most entertaining, and she did not wonder that his sunny disposition, which now that his health was better, asserted itself again, was a great attraction to her elder son.

A short while longer she stood talking to Mr. Bailey, whilst Angel and Dora continued their conversation about the robins, discussing by what means the birds could have met their deaths; and then they all left the market, and Mrs. Mickle and Dora went home, leaving Angel and her uncle to pack their purchases into the pony-carriage preparatory to making a start. Just as they were ready to leave, Miss Goodwin came up, and Mr. Bailey insisted on driving her to Myrtle Villa.

"I accept your kind offer most gladly," the old lady said, as she was assisted into the seat by Mr. Bailey, and Angel took her place opposite, with her back to the pony, "for I find these spring days trying, and my basket is heavy. I always do my own marketing; such has been my custom for—I forget how many years."

She was childishly delighted at the unexpected pleasure of a drive, and chatted gaily as they drove down the main street, enumerating to her companions the various articles her basket contained, and bowing impressively to the few acquaintances they met on the road. She sighed regretfully when, after passing over the bridge, in a few minutes more Myrtle Villa was reached, but brightened perceptibly when Mr. Bailey suggested taking her for a drive on another day.

"Really?" she asked, as having helped her to alight he took his seat again. "Oh, that will be delightful!" and her blue eyes shone with pleasure. "Wait a moment! I must give you some of my lilies of the valley; they are now in full bloom."

She entered her garden, hastened to a sheltered corner shaded by a purple lilac tree, and gathered a great bunch of sweet-scented flowers, which, returning, she laid in Angel's lap, smiling happily as she listened to the little girl's exclamations of admiration and thanks; then Pixy started afresh, whilst the old lady stood in her gateway till the pony-carriage was out of sight.

Arrived at home, Angel hastened to the studio in search of her father, to give him a share of her flowers; she found Gilbert Mickle on the point of leaving, and was surprised at the brightness of his face. The boy was in an unusually happy frame of mind, Mr. Willis having found great merit in his sketches.

"Only think, Angel," Mr. Willis said to his little daughter after Gilbert had gone, "he is quite self-taught. He never took a drawing lesson in his life. He has real talent, and I have been telling him that if his father will permit it, I will gladly give him some lessons; he would be a promising pupil. What are you looking so thoughtful about, my dear?"

"I was thinking what a disappointment it must be to you, father, that I have no talent for drawing," she responded gravely; "you were so pleased with those freehand drawings Gerald did at school."

"Naturally I was. We shall see what you do at school; if you cannot learn to draw, there are plenty of other things you can master, I am sure."

"Oh yes," Angel agreed, her face brightening. "It will be delightful to go to school. Only a week longer to wait. Dinah and Dora Mickle say they will be sorry when the holidays are over, but I shall be so glad. Gerald hasn't returned yet, has he, father?"

"I have not seen him since you left."

When Gerald strolled into the house a half-hour later, he was in a thoughtful mood. He listened inattentively to the account his sister gave him of how she had spent the morning, and offered no confidences in return.

"Wasn't it dreadful about the little birds?" Angel said, after she had repeated Dora's story of the tragedy.

"Oh, bother the birds!" he cried irritably. "What a fuss every one makes about them! First Gilbert, and now you—"

He paused, noticing Angel's look of astonishment. It was not that he was not sorry the birds were dead, but his feeling of guilt made him hate to hear of them. He turned impatiently away, muttering under his breath that girls were too soft-hearted for anything, and Gilbert Mickle was just as bad.