Chapter XIX: Gerald's Temper

THE following Saturday evening found Angel with her father and uncle in the churchyard on Haresdown hill. They had been for a walk, and now stood leaning over the churchyard wall admiring the view, and watching the sunset. The western sky was gorgeous in its colouring, its hues deepening from delicate shell pink to brilliant crimson and gold, the reflected glory of which lit up the old grey church, and cast a rosy glow over the meadows lying between Haresdown hill and the town, over which a faint grey mist was now rising.

There had been silence for some time when Mr. Bailey glanced from one to the other of his companions, and said with a smile—

"I wonder what we have been thinking of these last few minutes. Not one of us has spoken a word!"

"I was watching that cloud," Mr. Willis returned, indicating a snowy speck in the western sky, "and trying to remember a poem I once read called 'The Evening Cloud,' written, I presume, after watching another such a glorious sight as this. The poet imagined the white cloud slowly floating towards the sunset an emblem of the immortality of the soul. I cannot remember all the poem, only these lines—"

"Emblem, methought, of the departed soul To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven. Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies."

"Is not that a beautiful idea most beautifully expressed?"

Angel slipped her hand through her father's arm, and met his eyes with understanding in her own. She needed no words to tell her that he was thinking of her mother, whose faithful soul had reached the golden gates of Heaven, and was now safe in the presence of God.

"It is indeed a beautiful idea," Mr. Bailey answered, whilst Angel, after that one glance at her father, watched the white cloud with quickened interest. "Now, I will tell you what I was thinking of," he continued seriously, "and then Angel must let us know her thoughts too!"

The little girl looked somewhat embarrassed on hearing this. She had been thinking of her brother, and wondering where he was spending the evening, for he had left the house after tea without telling any one where he had been going, and had thus lost the walk with his father and uncle, which she felt certain he would have enjoyed. Gerald had not, as yet, paid her the eighteen pence he had borrowed from her a few days previously; and she had been considering whether there was the least probability of his doing so, or if she would be prevented from giving Dora a birthday present after all. So her thoughts had not been happy ones, and she was most undesirous of making them known.

"I have been thinking how grateful I ought to be to God for giving me my heart's desire," Mr. Bailey said earnestly. Then, as the others looked at him inquiringly, he proceeded to explain— "I always wished to return to my native town to end my days, and I worked hard with the fixed idea of coming home and settling here. That ambition was always before me; but I never dreamt I should have an opportunity of buying back Haresdown House. It has been such happiness to visit once more the places that were familiar to me when your father and I were boys, John. And I cannot express how much the companionship of yourself and your children enhances my pleasure in everything. Think how lonely I should be but for you!"

"And think what would have become of us all but for you, Uncle Edward," Mr. Willis responded, with deep feeling in his tone. "I should have been sent to a hospital when I was so ill, and I dare not contemplate what would have become of Angel and Gerald then!"

"God would have taken care of them," Mr. Bailey reminded him, "but I am glad I happened to be in England when you wanted me. Happened! Why, I'm talking as though it was just by chance, when we know all the while there was no chance about it. It was God's wisdom that planned the right time for my return."

"Do you think God plans everything for us?" Angel asked.

"Yes, my dear, I do; but sometimes we're foolish and think we know better than He does what is good for us, and we complain because He denies us something upon which we have set our hearts, and we put our will against His, and wonder because we are unsatisfied and unhappy; and then, maybe, He shows us why what He denied us was not for us, and we find He knew best. It saves a lot of fretting and worrying if one can only learn to trust in God."

"Yes," the little girl agreed thoughtfully, recalling that evening in the orchard when the apple trees had been in bloom, and Mr. Bailey had talked to her in a similar fashion with "God knows best" for his text—words which to him were the philosophy of life, the expression of his faith in the perfect wisdom and goodness of God. "Yes," she repeated, "but it is very difficult—often—isn't it, father?"

Mr. Willis nodded, his eyes still fixed on the sky, where the sun had now disappeared from view. Mr. Bailey pointed to the mist arising in the valley, and suggested the advisability of moving homewards.

"The fog is from the sea." he said, "and is evidently coming in with the tide."

"But the tide does not flow so far up the river as Wreyford, does it?" Mr. Willis asked, in surprise.

"No, but it is felt within a few miles of here," Mr. Bailey replied. "I remember we used to say at Haresdown House, when the wind was blowing in a certain direction, that we could smell the sea."

"The air is certainly always beautifully fresh and invigorating," Mr. Willis said. "Well, I am loath to move yet, but I suppose it would be wiser to do so."

"Oh yes, father!" Angel cried eagerly. "You know the doctor said you must take care of yourself, and not run the risk of catching cold by being out of doors too late."

They passed through the churchyard, and out by the lych-gate into the road, Angel with her arm linked in her father's.

"I wish Gerald had been with us this evening," the latter remarked, "I believe he would have enjoyed the walk. I wonder where he has gone."

"I don't know," Angel answered, "I expect he is with Reginald Hope, he spends most of his spare time with him."

"Young Hope is older than Gerald," Mr. Willis said reflectively, "so it is rather strange they should be such close friends. I suppose they have tastes in common. I see very little of Gerald nowadays. I hope you don't help him with his lessons now, Angel?"

"Oh no!" she responded promptly; "he learns them quite by himself."

"That's well. You have enough to do to attend to your own. By the way, I am afraid Gerald is growing extravagant; he spends more money than he ought."

"Why do you give it to him, John?" Mr. Bailey inquired abruptly, whilst Angel started and grew red. "I thought he had a regular weekly allowance?"

"He has, but he always exceeds it."

"I don't think he should be allowed to do that," Mr. Bailey remarked gravely, "he should be taught to keep within his means. I suppose you allow him as much as you consider he ought to have?"

"Certainly. I expect he fritters away his money at the 'tuck-shop;' he has a great liking for sweetmeats, has he not?" Mr. Willis asked of Angel.

"Yes," she admitted, turning her face away from her father's gaze lest it should betray her uneasy thoughts to his observant eyes.

"But he cannot spend all his money in sweets," Mr. Bailey objected. "Why, one day last week he had half-a-crown from you, John; and I know the next morning he had not a farthing, because he came to me and asked me to give him sixpence."

"Asked you to give him sixpence!" Mr. Willis cried in surprise, and Angel, glancing at him quickly, saw he looked very vexed. "Did you let him have it, Uncle Edward?" he asked.

"No, I did not. I told him I considered he spent too much money, and lectured him on his extravagance! I really think, John, you should interfere; I believe he keeps Angel poor by borrowing from her."

"Oh, Uncle Edward!" the little girl cried, starting violently. "How did you find out that? I never told you."

"I overheard your brother asking you for money one day, my dear, and I have noticed that rarely spend any on yourself, so I drew my own conclusions. Ah, I see I am right!"

She did not know what to say. Her father watched the changing expressions of her face with growing wonderment, and noted that her grey eyes were full of tears.

"Angel, how long has this been going on?" he asked.

"What, father?"

"How long has Gerald been in the habit of borrowing money from you?"

"A—a long while," she confessed in low tones. "Ever since we have been at Haresdown House?"

"Yes."

"Before?" he questioned.

"Sometimes—not so often; you know, father, I did not have pocket-money regularly in London."

"No, poor child!"

"I didn't want any there," she assured him eagerly. "And I don't mind letting Gerald have it now—that is, generally. Oh!" she cried, turning a reproachful glance upon Mr. Bailey, "why did you say anything about it? You don't think I begrudge my money to Gerald, do you?"

"No, my dear, certainly not," Mr. Bailey responded gravely; "but I see no reason why you should be victimised."

"No, indeed!" Mr. Willis exclaimed. "But, Angel, if Gerald borrows your money, surely he pays it back?"

She shook her head; and her father frowned. He was very angry with his son. Naturally easygoing and unbusiness-like himself, he had never calculated how much money went through Gerald's hands; now, for the first time, he was seriously considering the matter, with the result that he was quite dismayed. Better would it have been for the boy if his father had been of a more suspicious nature!

"Angel, why didn't you tell me about it?" Mr. Willis questioned reproachfully. "If I had known, I would not have allowed Gerald to treat you like that."

"Oh, father, don't look so sorry!" she cried. "You won't worry about it, will you? And—and please don't be too angry with poor Gerald. I dare say he wants money a great deal more than I do!"

"He evidently thinks so," Mr. Willis responded drily. "But what does he do with it all?" he continued, glancing in a puzzled fashion at Mr. Bailey, who shook his head, evidently unable to solve that problem. "I must have a serious talking to him, and hear what he has to say for himself."

"You won't be hard on him, will you?" Angel pleaded, for she was conscious that her father was deeply annoyed. "I know he ought not to—"

"Pray don't try to make excuses for him!" Mr. Willis broke in, with unusual sharpness in his tone. "I see one thing very plainly, that he stands a great chance of being ruined by his sister."

"Oh, father!" she exclaimed distressfully.

"I am aware it is your affection for him that makes you so foolishly give in to his wishes," Mr. Willis proceeded, "but it's a great pity. Why cannot you stand up for your own rights? You are older than Gerald, and yet—there, child, don't look so hurt! One would think I was unkind to you!"

"Oh no, no!" Angel replied earnestly. "Oh, father, have I done very wrong? I did think that perhaps I ought to tell you how much money Gerald was spending, but if I had, he would have said I was a sneak, and, of course, I did not want to get him into trouble."

"You should have told me your brother was in the habit of borrowing your money and never paying it back; he has not behaved with common honesty. Your silence was a mistake."

They had by this time reached the entrance to Haresdown House, where they found Gerald himself waiting for them. His father laid a hand on his arm, and briefly requested him to come to the studio as he had something important to say to him.

Angel and Mr. Bailey were now left alone together. The former's face expressed the deepest concern and uneasiness, whilst the latter's ruddy, countenance looked exceedingly grave.

"Father is very angry," Angel said in a sorrowful tone. "Oh, how I wish you had not told him!"

"My dear child," he replied earnestly, "it was right he should know—for Gerald's sake. Has your love for your brother quite blinded you to what the consequences of your always hiding his misdoings must inevitably be? Your father spoke truly when he said Gerald stands a great chance of being ruined by you."

"Oh, Uncle Edward, you don't understand! I promised mother I would be loving and patient with him. Neither you nor father know how I feel!" And she turned from him, her eyes swimming with tears, and rushed into the house, and upstairs to her own room, where she threw herself down by the bedside and wept without restraint. It was so bitterly hard to be blamed for trying to shield Gerald.

After a while she grew calmer, and, rising from her knees, went to the door and unlatched it, so that she might hear when her brother came out of the studio. She could hear the murmur of voices below, her father's grave and displeased; and Gerald's sounding rather sulky, she thought. After a while the studio door was opened, and, straining her ears, she was able to catch what her father said—

"Very well, my boy. I hope you will keep your word. You must be more careful for the future, for the idea of your squandering money is most painful to me. Remember how needy we have been in the past! And you have treated your sister most unfairly—most dishonourably! I could hardly believe it when I heard about it. Let me see by your future conduct that you are serving her with greater consideration."

"Yes, father," Gerald's voice returned. "May I go now, please?"

"Certainly."

The studio door closed, and the next minute Gerald ascended the stairs. Angel stepped out on the landing, her tear-stained face brightening, for she had gleaned from the few words she had overheard that her brother and father's interview had come to a satisfactory conclusion.

"Gerald," she said softly under her breath as the boy reached her side, "was father very angry? Come in, and tell me what he said."

"Not likely!" he retorted, his face, which had been pale before, suddenly crimsoning with passion, his eyes flashing indignation upon her. "You've got me into a row, and that ought to satisfy you!"

"But it was not my fault! Oh, Gerald, listen to me!" she exclaimed in great distress. "Oh, tell me, was father very angry?"

"Much you care if he was! You mean thing! Just because I hadn't paid you that wretched eighteen pence to go and make this fuss! Sneak! Sneak!" he hissed between his clenched teeth as he turned away and entered his own room.

He did not expect her to follow him, but she did, and began to explain that she had not been instrumental in getting him into trouble, as he appeared to think; but he turned upon her fiercely, and would not listen.

"Get out of my room this instant!" he commanded. "Go quickly, or I'll make you!"

"Indeed, Gerald—"

"Go!" he interrupted impatiently. "You nasty hypocrite, you!"

"Oh, don't call me such names!" she said pleadingly. "Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry—" She broke off with a sob. Had she been wise she would have left him until he was in a better frame of mind, but she could not bear to think that he had formed a wrong opinion of her, so she began once more to enter into an explanation. Completely losing his temper, Gerald turned upon her, and struck her a swift, stinging blow on the cheek with the flat of his hand, leaving the imprint of his fingers on her soft flesh; then, grasping her by the shoulder, he pushed her roughly out of the room and locked the door against her.