[CHAPTER XXVIII]
Conclusion
THE winter passed swiftly and happily for the household at Haresdown House, and before the days began to lengthen, Mr. Willis had finished his picture. It was exhibited in his studio to the friends he had made in Wreyford ere it was safely packed for its journey to town. No one knew better than Angel how the artist had pinned his most cherished hopes on the success of this piece of work, once laid aside through no fault of his own, now completed in every detail with the greatest care. She and Gilbert Mickle had many a long talk about it, never doubting either of them but that others would be as appreciative of Mr. Willis' talent as themselves. Nor were they to be disappointed, for, in due course, the picture was hung on the walls of Burlington House in a most excellent position, and known to be the picture of the year. 'Righteousness and Peace' was declared, in artistic circles, to be the work of a genius, and Angel and Gerald's delight knew no bounds, whilst Mr. Bailey felt vastly proud of his nephew.
One beautiful May evening, when the fresh spring breeze was sweet with the scent of hawthorn and wild flowers, a very happy party was congregated in the Mickles' dining-room—Mrs. Mickle and her four children, Miss Goodwin, and Angel and Gerald Willis. The two latter had lately arrived upon the scene: they had explained that they were going to the station to meet their father and uncle, who were returning from London that night, but that having half an hour to spare before the train was due to reach Wreyford, they thought they would pass the time with their friends.
"We wanted to tell you about the papers father has sent us from London," Angel said, her grey eyes sparkling with excitement; "they all speak so well of 'Righteousness and Peace,' and Uncle Edward wrote and told us that when he went to Burlington House there was quite a crowd around father's picture, and every one was admiring and praising it."
"It is a most marvellous piece of work, to my mind!" Miss Goodwin exclaimed. "How proud we ought to feel, dear Mrs. Mickle, that we were privileged to have a private view of the picture, which I am informed, is by far and away the best in the Royal Academy this year. We were indeed most fortunate!"
"So I think," Mrs. Mickle replied, smiling. "What is that, my dear?" she asked, as Angel pulled an envelope from her pocket.
"It's a letter from Mrs. Steer," Angel answered; "you know who she is—our old landlady in London. I should like you to read what she says, because it's mostly about father. Please read it aloud, Mrs. Mickle; I dare say the others would like to hear it too."
Mrs. Mickle took the letter from the little girl's hand, smiled into the eyes that met her own full of a great happiness; then turned her attention to Mrs. Steer's rather indistinct handwriting, and read aloud, slowly, as follows—
"MY DEAR MISS ANGEL,—"