PRINCESS FAIR-STAR.
'But the little Stars we found (out)
Down amongst the Underwood.'
_Jean Ingelow._
Even while Lance and Clement were in discussion, Charles Audley
had paddled up the river, and mooring his little craft at the
landing-place, had taken the path to the garden.
There, beyond the cedar, so as to be hidden from any one upon the
river, sat Stella, decking a cross with lilies-of-the-valley and white
lilacs. Scamp was lying by her, and her doves parading and cooing
on the grass and cedar boughs beside her; but the utter droop and
dejection of her young figure were altogether out of keeping with the
summer surroundings; the shining head was bowed, and the heavy eyelids
with broad red rings around them showed that she had wept and wept on
for hours. She did not hear the step on the soft grass, for her low sad
voice was murmuring, 'My Tedo, my darling, my baby, is this the last
thing I shall ever do for him?'
Then Scamp wagged his tail and crested his ears in greeting, and the
doves circled about, and perched higher upon the cedar tree, while
Charles, holding one of the flat sweeping boughs back, stood looking
down at her, as hardly knowing how to greet her, and with a tear
gathering in his eyes. She stood up, and looked up to him meekly and
sweetly, with a touching sort of welcome, as she held out her hand,
saying simply, 'You saved me, and I never thanked you yesterday.'
Instead of speaking, Charles lifted the little hand in both his to his
lips and cheek for a moment, as if nothing else could express how he
prized that chance; but if Stella thought at all, it was that it was a
kind action of comforting.
'Your brother is better,' he said, having inquired at Page's door.
'Yes, he is better. I saw him, and he just spoke; but he does look so
bad!'
'He will soon mend now,' said Charles, with the confidence of one who
knew nothing about it. 'And you are all alone?'
'They are all busy or resting or something, and I want to do it all for
Theodore myself--my own own darling!' The last words were a moan to
herself, as she sat down in her low chair and resumed the little cross.
'May not I help a _little?_' softly entreated Charles, sitting down
on the grass and quietly handing her the flowers, ready arranged in
bunches, with a leaf. She did not speak, but seemed to like it. There
was a loneliness about her that again struck him, so that he could not
help half blaming those who had left her to herself; and to account for
their absence asked after Lance.
'He is up, but he seems very poorly still,' she said; 'he is lying down
in the Prior's room.'
'And they have left you all to yourself?'
'I like to be alone. Nobody did care for him like me. They were all
very kind to him. I don't think he knew the sound of a rough word, my
dear little gentle Tedo! but nobody understood him like me, nobody
could make him understand--' and she rocked herself backwards and
forwards under the load of her first real grief. It was very sad to the
young man to watch, and he hardly knew what to say, as again he took
her hand. 'Well, now he can't have any troubles, you know, Stella, he's
a great deal happier than ever you could make him.'
'Oh yes, I know that. Only it is foolish. I can't think how he gets on
all alone! I know it is very wrong, but if Felix or I had gone with
him it would not seem so strange for him. Yes, it is very silly,' she
added, half laughing, but crying again, 'but it _will_ seem hard to
fancy he does not want me.'
'He is not the only one to want you,' muttered Charles.
'Oh no! There are plenty of them. I want to be thankful, indeed I
do, but no one ever can be so dear! Never mind,' she added in her
unselfishness, perceiving that her exceeding sorrow was causing grief
and perplexity, 'it can't be helped; I do know he is happy, and I'll
learn to bear the being left alone.'
'Never! if dearest love can make up to you--dearest, sweetest little
one!' cried Charles. 'There!' as he took both her hands, and her
wistful wondering eyes were raised, 'don't you see some one who wants
you every moment, and that all your brothers put together can't love
you a quarter as much as I do? There! there! Only do just promise,
Stella, never to talk again of being left all alone while you have
Charlie.'
'I don't think I can,' said Stella, in a dreamy wondering voice, 'for
you are so kind.'
'And you'll let me try to comfort you?'--a dangerous proposal, for he
did not in the least know how he should have set about it if she had
not answered, 'I think you do,' as if it rather surprised her, bringing
such an approach to caressing as would have startled her at any moment
when her heart was not so yearning for tenderness and sympathy. And
there was a reaction the next moment, as finding herself guilty of
forgetting Theodore and his cross, she gave a moan of pain--'Oh, my
Tedo!' and went on with her work; but she let him wait on her with the
flowers, and now and then a little squeeze of the hand, and he knew he
must be content with that much. Presently she said that she ought to
make something for 'that other poor one, or it would look so unkind
when his mother came.' In this task she could brook more help, and she
spoke more over it, with a sweet soft languor that had an infinite
pathos, as if somehow the acute anguish of her loss had been softened,
and she were resting in the strange new peace which she did not yet
know for joy, but which had filled her heart. She was so very young,
so very pure, so very unconscious, that Charlie, almost as young and
not much less simple and innocent, was as tender and reverent of her
and her grief, and the state of her guardian brother, as though she had
been one of her own white flowers--those last sprays she let him take
from her hand when all was done, and they went together to carry the
wreaths and crosses to the Oratory.
The large heavy curtains that separated the hall from the long room
were let down, and the screen, a tall wooden one, as usual cut off the
Oratory. Here the chairs had been removed to make room; and close under
the Cross, to the eastward, were the two tables that had been covered
with white to receive the two who had so lately gone forth full of life.
On one of the chairs sat Cherry, endeavouring to obtain some record of
that unearthly loveliness of expression, chiefly for Felix's sake. She
had just done all she durst, and produced a drawing that would not look
like such an utter failure away from the original, when these two came
in, Stella leading the way in gentle awe, very sad indeed, but still
not with that utterly drooping downcast look of leaden grief which had
in the morning shrunk from all comforters who could only believe, not
enter into, the intensity of her mourning for her twin.
Cherry, in the corner, almost hidden by the chairs, could not tell
whether her presence were perceived; but in truth the child was so
simple, that she would probably have done exactly the same whether
her sister was present or not, and Charles had no eyes for aught save
her. She knelt down for a moment, with her face in her hands; then she
kissed the white brow set in fair hair, and seemed to expect Charles to
do the same, as a great favour to him, after which she let him help her
to lay her cross with the wreath round it on the breast, and change the
now closed Star of Bethlehem that lay under the waxen fingers, as well
as that withered spray of broom. Once more she knelt, and whispered
the Lord's Prayer: and he did the same, imitating her in everything, a
grave kind of light on his young brow. It was very solemn and beautiful
to see them, and Cherry watched them almost with awe.
When they rose, Stella placed her decorations on the longer broader
form on the other table, but whispered that Clement had bidden her not
to look at that face.
They went away hand in hand, and parted upon the lawn, for precious as
each other's presence was, they, in their reverence and inexperience,
felt as if his coming in to the family meal might be an intrusion,
which neither could propose. So he bade her tell her brothers that he
should meet them at the Rood.
'I shall hardly see you just yet,' he said, 'though I shall come to
the door every day, but never--never think yourself alone, dearest,
dearest, dearest one!' And after holding both the little hands for some
moments in his, he drew her up to him for one second, then was gone.
No one saw Angela standing at the garden door, with contracted brows
and bitten lip. As she crossed the hall, there was an entrance at the
front door; but she darted up-stairs, and it was Stella who first
greeted Bernard, who had been telegraphed for by Charlie, and came
home awed, subdued, and terribly alarmed by the report he had heard at
Church Ewe. 'But I see it was all clack, after all, and no harm done,'
he said, as he looked at his little sister's face. 'Only why do you
frighten a fellow by having all the blinds down?'
And Stella, horrified at her own disloyalty, could hardly find
utterance to explain that it was but too true; and when she led Bernard
to the Oratory, somehow it was all the happy and glorious side of her
twin's removal that dwelt with her, while he, who had been in a rough
way very fond of the little helpless one, and had never faced death
before, broke entirely down with 'Poor little chap! I wish I'd been
better to him! I meant to have got him a new thingumijig last half--but
I spent--I wish I hadn't now. It seems so odd not to hear him humming.'
And he yielded at last to a fit of crying; and when Stella spoke softly
of the present joyful songs, he said, 'Ay! ay! that's all very well for
you that were always good to him, and never kicked him about; but if
I'd only known--'
And yet it had always been the most hopeful part of Bernard's character
that he had never been really unkind to Theodore, and very rarely even
impatient, even when teased by a fit of imitation.
The mid-day meal was the first family assembly since the same hour the
previous day, and it did not collect all the members at the same time.
Angela was only sent down after every one else had done, constrained
by Wilmet's command, enforced by a word from Felix. Cherry had lain in
wait for her, to ask necessary questions about her mourning, for no
circumstances were likely to make Angela brook the having orders for
her dress given without consulting her.
'There's a box of hats and bonnets in Sibby's room, if you would look
at them. The bonnets are all one worse than another; but if you would
see if you would like one like mine or like Stella's--'
Angela jumped as if she had been stung. 'Stella's! certainly not.'
'I have not chosen a very childish one for her. This will make her more
of a woman.'
'Don't go chattering on!' broke out Angela. 'Don't you think _I've_ not
got enough upon me without your worrying me out of my life with that
little humbug!'
'I don't think you know what you are saying.'
'_You_ don't, Cherry. That's the way people are always taken in by a
little sham softness and simplicity. I hate such snakes.'
It struck Cherry that Angela must have drawn the same conclusion as had
occurred to her for one moment as she saw the hands clasped. The bitter
word applied to their darling Fair-Star offended her not a little, but
she made a great effort to ask kindly, 'Has anything vexed you, Angel?'
'Vexed!' as if the word were utterly inadequate. 'No, not one thing
more than another! Have done, Cherry! You mean it well, but I can't
stand it!--No more! I've had enough to keep me going;' and she threw
down her knife and fork, and gulped down a tumbler of beer.
'You need not hurry. Wilmet is with Felix.'
'As if I didn't know that!'
There was a look and tone about her as if she were brimming over with
inconceivable misery, to which every word added; and Cherry felt quite
powerless to deal with her as she darted up-stairs.
And just then came the feet of many men, treading as gently as they
could. John Harewood regretted for a moment that Stella and Clement had
not delayed their arrangements till after this inspection, yet it might
be well that these rougher spirits should see how little gloomy they
had made the sleep of the innocent. The young men too were evidently
struck by seeing that their comrade had not been neglected any more
than the child of the house, and Stella's cares were thus not thrown
away.
Clement, Bernard, and John Harewood had just crossed the churchyard,
and were turning up the road to the village inn, when Clement
perceived that Angela had joined them, and turning back to her, he
said, 'My dear, you are not thinking of coming?'
'I am.'
'There is no need. Here are quite witnesses enough.'
'No. No one knows what I do,' she said, with face as hard set as marble.
'Has Felix spoken to you?' he said, understanding better.
'Only what you heard. That was enough.'
'It is a right purpose, Angela,' he said, kindly: 'but really you need
not expose yourself to this. We can quite exonerate the others by
showing that our boat swung round at the last moment, and that is all
that signifies. We neither saw nor knew why.'
'And I did,' said Angela.
To check her was plainly impossible. There was the sort of seared look
of misery about her face which had before struck Cherry, as if she were
perfectly indifferent what might happen to her, and hardly heard what
was said; and Clement could only make a gesture indicating that he had
no choice, when he met the astonished glances of the others.
The Rood was almost as old as the Priory itself, and the inquest was
held in a curious old pannelled room. The other boat's crew had brought
an attorney to watch the proceedings, evidently anticipating that undue
blame would be imputed to them, to the damage of their character even
if nothing more came of it.
The first to tell his story was the Reverend Edward Clement Underwood,
who merely explained the manner in which they were seated, the sudden
challenge from the six-oar, and how just as he had thought the boat
clear, he had felt whirled round in the eddy, the boat was struck in
the stern, and went down. His brother Theodore was instantly taken out;
Francis Yates, the other sufferer, not till the last, he could not say
how long.
Charles Audley then spoke of the shouts and violence of the
pursuit--admitting, however, that it would have been harmless had not
the boat turned so as to expose her stern in the midst of the two
streams. An oar must have missed the stroke, but whose it was he could
not say; and he finally mentioned having brought out poor Yates, who
had been sucked down by the eddy, and carried to the opposite bank. The
Coroner asked in a complimentary voice whether he had not been more
successful in other cases; and Charlie, colouring, allowed that he had
brought two more out of the river.
There Angela started up. Clement had tried to keep her till she
was called for, but the Coroner, seeing her agitation, courteously
expressed himself willing to take her evidence. Her cheeks were
crimson, and she spoke breathlessly. 'I only want to say it was
nobody's fault but mine. They would not have raced with us if I had
not begun singing. And then they would have cleared us, but I got
frightened when we came to the meeting of the currents, and my stroke
failed. That made the stern swing round. And I am ready to take the
consequences.'
'No consequences need be apprehended, Miss Underwood,' said the
Coroner, a kind old man. 'No one can impute blame to a young lady for a
very natural alarm; and every one must feel this voluntary explanation
extremely honourable to you.'
He was making a cruel cut if he had only known it, but he was full
of consideration for her; and the young men themselves gave their
evidence in a very different style from the defensive and offensive one
intended; nor was the question of their sobriety, on which they had
brought up the landlord of the Hook and Line, even alluded to, before
the verdict of accidental death was returned.
Clement had the feeling that this was the most generous action of
Angela's life, and yet she had carried it out in so defiant a manner
that it was not easy to give her full credit; and before he could
address her, she had sped away, between skimming and striding, and was
across the churchyard before he had reached the door.
Bernard relieved himself by a low whistle.
'Well,' said Charlie, 'I thought her pluck indomitable. I never
supposed that she capsized us.'
'Why, whom did you think it could be?'
'Well, if you must know, I thought Lance just the spoon to do it--a
musician, and he'd been looking moon-struck all day.'
'Much you know about Lance! Why, I'd have taken my oath beforehand it
was nobody's doing but Angel's. It's just the way with that sort of
girl that runs into what she's no call to--'
Lance meantime was having a brief transaction with the reporter of the
Ewmouth paper, and then was detained by warm expressions from the other
boat's crew, who had been quite disarmed, and were eager to tell of
their sorrow and their sense of the kindness and 'handsomeness' of the
treatment they had received--speaking to him, indeed, a great deal more
freely than they could have done to his brother the Vicar, as a being
far less removed from their own sphere, and giving him valuable data
for dealing with their comrade, young Light, who still lay very ill.
Clement had visited him in the morning, and had found him gruff and
reserved, and showing decided objections to clerical visits as such.
These lads seemed more careless than free-thinking, as they allowed
that Light certainly was; and they were now much impressed, and eager
to speak of poor Yates's steadiness and goodness. Indeed, he had
not even meant to go to the Maying, and they had been in the act of
chaffing him for the abstinence which they now longed to have shared.
It was the greater comfort, because his poor mother had just been
brought over by her son's master, who would take charge of her till the
funeral. She was in the strange mixture of fuss and grief that never
shows to advantage, and when taken to see her boy was divided between
gratitude at the honours paid to him and dread of their novelty, and
the ground where it was easiest to meet her was his real dutifulness
and affection.
Attention to the poor woman and other calls hindered Clement from any
interview with Angela, whom indeed he hardly saw till the night vigil
which he was to share with her. The day had not been unfavourable,
except from the exhaustion produced by the afternoon heat; and
Bernard's brief visit had exceedingly dismayed him. He declared that
he had never seen any one look like _that_ but a fellow who had
been really killed by a disastrous blow at foot-ball, and put all
his auditors in the lowest spirits by a series of tragic anecdotes;
until Mr. Page, at his evening visit, declared that he saw more real
improvement than he had dared to expect.
Felix could not bear to see two watchers losing their whole night's
rest; and as Angela was unpersuadable, Clement, to content him, lay
down dressed on the bed in the next room, and being thoroughly tired,
was fast asleep, when in the middle of the night an access of pain
returned, probably from some inadvertent movement in slumber. Felix
forbade Angela to summon his brother; but ere long the agony increased
so much, that, with a lip stiff and straightened by the struggle to
suppress a cry, he said, 'Help me!' and as thinking he wanted to change
his posture, she offered her arm and neck, he released another sob of
anguish, and answered, 'No! no! Say--prayers--what I can't recollect.'
Her lips quivered, but no sound came. However, Clement, with true
nursing instinct, had been roused, and stood over him, uttering at
intervals the supplications after which he had been feeling in the
distraction of acute pain, and the look of having lost something passed
away. The fomentations were renewed; and at last, just as Lance was
dressing to go for Mr. Page, a faint but free voice said, 'Don't go, it
is getting better;' and in ten minutes more, the paroxysm had passed
into a sweet sleep, which lasted till long after morning had risen.
Clement would not leave him again, but Angela refused every sign of
dismissal, and sat cold, hard, stiff as a statue, with open fixed
eyes, and cheeks so wan as to be almost green in the light of dawn. He
watched her with almost as much anxiety as the sleeper; and when at
four o'clock their watch was relieved by John and Wilmet, he followed
her to her own door, and said, 'Angel, my dear child, I am afraid you
are very unhappy.'
'Well, why not? Good-night, or morning.'
'Should we not both be better able to rest if you would let me do what
I can for you?'
She laughed--a horrid painful scornful laugh it was. 'Much good that
would do. Such a trouble as this!'
'Yet, Angel, would you but try! There is no grief or penitence too
vast--'
The laugh again. 'So one says till one tries, and then one finds
that one hates it all! all! all! No, I tell you, Clement, I won't be
bothered now! I can't stand it.'
And she locked her door.
Even Felix, who in spite of that one attack was evidently stronger,
must have remarked her manner, for he asked Wilmet whether there were
anything amiss with Angel. 'She is grieving over her share in the
accident,' said Wilmet. 'I hope it may be a turning-point with her.'
No doubt he thought over this; for later in the day, when Angela was
sponging his face and hands with warm water, and exclaimed at sight
of a red mark on his arm, 'Did you hurt yourself there, Felix?' he
answered, 'No, it is the old scald. Do you remember our talk then?'
'You can't go on as you did then,' she hurriedly said.
'Then don't look as you did then,' he said. 'Remember, visible results
are often merciful aids to correction.'
She perpetrated a hard stiff smile; and from that time shunned being
left alone with him, and sometimes when the exterior family thought her
in the sick-room was really shut up in her own, for she avoided the
presence of the others as much as possible, and when among them showed
an irritability and unkindness to Stella that Cherry could hardly bear
to see. She could hardly answer an inquiry after Felix from her with
common courtesy, and roughly took things out of her hands to prevent
her bringing them into the room, when a moment's sight of her sweet
face would have been no harm but rather good to her patient.
By Thursday much of the pain, tenderness, and disability to move were
gone; and Tom May was well satisfied, not only thinking the first
danger over, and ascribing the chief remaining damage to a sprain,
but wishing that Felix should be lifted to a couch, where he could
be a good deal cooler than in his bed. It was lucky that Wilmet and
Cherry had resisted Clement's desire to present all the old Squire's
invalid machinery to the hospital, for there was great comfort in the
easy-going wheeled couch with angles of every inclination on which he
was brought to the window. Bernard longed to draw up the blind, instead
of his 'seeing nothing but that black cross and the old trumpeting
angel under it,' as he said.
'My trumpeting angel is a dear friend,' said Felix. 'He says a great
deal.'
Felix was obedient to the order to be moved, and showed that he
was less prostrate in strength than had been anticipated; but his
passiveness struck those who knew him best as not so much the langour
of weakness as of sorrow. What Clement had rightly deemed no ill news
in what seemed his own last struggle, was a sore grief in his recovery.
Little Theodore's loving dependence was greatly missed, and saddened
the thought of returning to the family.
Nor was he the only mourner. The first practice of the choir-boys
without him ended in a positive howl; one of them was reported to have
said Master Theodore was a little angel among them; and the intimation
of Stella's desire for broom blossom brought in such an accumulation of
golden flowers as might have covered the whole family.
Sibby added to Clement's perplexities by announcing her intention of
not going to mass any more barring at Church. She would cast in her lot
with her own children, the darlin' above all that was the Lord's own
lamb; and she hadn't need go further, when here was Master Clem, as
good a praste as any of her own clergy that was.
Though this was precisely Master Clem's own view, he could not tell
whether he were encouraging an act of schism or an act of Catholicity;
and he had not much choice, for praste as she owned him, he knew that
the least opposition would make him in his old nurse's eyes no more
than the long white boy she had victimized and allowed to be victimized
by all his brothers. He wondered whether to write to the Priest at
Ewmouth, who had certainly never attended to Sibby like his brother
at Bexley, nor exerted himself to encourage her weekly tramp to mass.
Altogether, though touched and warmed, he was by no means so elated
about his convert as Clan Hepburn would have thought proper.
Those good ladies, in spite of their belief that there was a regular
_chapelle ardente_ round poor Theodore, and that the Vicar and the
Papist woman spent their time there in telling beads and sprinkling
holy-water, were too kind-hearted not to come daily to inquire, and
some one always went down to them. On Friday, when they were shown into
the drawing-room, they found Angela kneeling by the hearth, burning
some papers in the fire-place.
'Felix was better,' she said; 'he was being dressed, and was to be
taken into the painting-room, it was so much cooler;' but even as she
spoke, the hard silent misery of her face went to their hearts.
'You look sadly worn, my dear,' said Miss Bridget kindly. 'I hear you
are the best of nurses, but you must not be overtired.'
'Oh! nothing hurts me!' with her horrid little laugh.
'Fatigue of body is a rest to pain of mind,' said Miss Isabella; 'but
there is even a better rest, if you only knew your way to it, my poor
child.'
'And I fear it is studiously overlaid and concealed,' sighed Miss
Bridget.
Angela looked from one to the other; then exclaimed, 'There's not
a bit of help or comfort in anything! It is of no use talking.
Nothing--nothing will ever touch it.'
The vast grief she meant, and Miss Isabella understood her. 'Yes, truly
there are times when all we have trusted in falls--falls away and
leaves us alone.'
'And hating the humbug!' cried Angela, though even as she spoke she was
startled at her words; but the hard wretchedness of the past days, when
all she had been wont to hear of as comfort seemed but child's play
to the intensity of her grief, had exacerbated her against the whole
system in which she had been bred, so that the very sight of Clement
brought an angry sense of mockery.
Miss Bridget was shocked at the language; but her sister understood
better. 'Yes, Bridget, the dear child is feeling the desolation that
sooner or later comes to all who have been content with unrealities!
Most cruel, but better than the delusion.'
Bridget quoted, 'He feedeth on ashes; a deceived heart hath turned him
aside, that he cannot deliver his soul, nor say, Is there not a lie in
my right hand?'
'Ashes! ashes indeed!' cried Angela passionately, as she looked at
the black paper with grey crumbling edges that had once been a song,
where she thought she met Charlie's heart. 'The more one cares the more
hateful it all grows!' and she crushed the fragments into tinder with
the paper as she spoke.
'Dear, dear girl!' cried Isabella Hepburn; 'even as you crush that
paper, throw aside all these vain shows that cannot profit, and simply
cast yourself where Help is to be found!'
The real tender kindness, the promise of help, attracted the heart
weary of its misery, and yet spurning all the love and help that had
longed to aid all these days. She could in some strange way open to a
fresh person when the heart was closed to her own kindred; besides,
it was better to have the circumstances blamed than herself, and the
effect of the good lady's appeal was to make her groan, with tightly
compressed hands, 'Oh! no one can tell--no one can reach near the depth
of this unhappiness. Think what I have done! and what it has cost me!
And then it all seems--words--words--words--'
'Words--yes, till you find Him only in whom is Power to comfort. Is he
not rousing your heart by this utter destitution and powerlessness to
comfort, so as to bring you at once to lay the load on Him?'
The fervour of her voice carried force; and Angela said, 'If I
could--Not to find it all words again--'
'Poor child! Did He ever turn from such as come to Him? Take your Bible
in your hand, and at the foot of the Cross--not the material cross,
of which you have been taught to make a plaything, but the spiritual
Cross--cast your sorrows and your sins; believe, and be healed.'
'Believe! believe!' broke forth the girl. 'I suppose I do believe! I
very nearly didn't when I found it all sounded so inadequate and empty!'
'He only can be her Teacher,' whispered Miss Bridget; but her sister,
with true warmth of love and hope, said, 'He is teaching her;--but,
dear Angela, we will do our best by praying for or with you, or
pointing the way to the best of our power.'
At that moment Stella came in, and after quietly giving her hand to the
visitors, she said, 'Please, Angel, Clement wants to know if you have
the key of the walnut-press.'
'No! I don't know,' she crossly said, after feeling in her pocket in
vain.
'Most likely it is in the pocket of your blue skirt,' said Stella. 'May
I go and look?'
'No! I won't have my things pulled about! I don't believe it's there.
What does he want?'
Stella reluctantly answered, 'We are getting the Church ready; he wants
the pulpit-banner with the triangles.'
To the visitors this sounded like profane play at such a time. 'Poor
child!' they said; 'are these the devices that fritter away the deep
lessons of grief?'
'Stella has devices enough,' muttered Angela under her breath; but the
little maiden answered, 'We don't want to be sad;' but, spite of the
pensive gentle tone, it seemed to the Hepburn sisters mere levity and
desire to escape sorrow.
However, they rose to take leave, telling Angela they would always be
at her service; and as she accompanied them through the hall, came
Clement on the wake of his messenger, in distress for the key. She
dashed impetuously up-stairs--found it where Stella had suggested, and
flew down again with it.
'There! I've done with it! I'm sick of it all!'
'What?' asked the astonished Clement.
'I loathe it all,' she repeated. 'It is all of a piece--all ashes
instead of bread.'
'You are not mimicking the Hepburns,' said her brother. 'I beg your
pardon,' he instantly added.
'Mimicking! No, but like them I have learnt to rate all this frippery
at its worth! If you had any depth of feeling, you would loathe it as I
do. But that's the way you palter with truth and reality--deceiving and
deceived.'
The voice and flash in her eyes directed these last words on Stella;
but cutting short the reply that Clement was beginning, she again flew
up-stairs, leaving the other two aghast.
'This is a new phase!' said Clement.
'I wonder if grief drives people into a sort of distraction,' said
Stella, in a tone of excuse.
'Had the Hepburns been talking to her?'
'Yes; I thought she looked, when I came in, as if they had been some
comfort to her.'
'Ah!'
She had never heard such a sigh from him. In amaze she said, 'They
are so good. I thought great troubles made little differences be
forgotten.'
'True! It is their genuine goodness that makes me fear.'
'If that made her quite--in earnest?' asked Stella.
'I wish Mr. Fulmort could have come before Monday!' ejaculated Clement.
'She's past me!'
Then it struck him that he was talking to little Stella as to a woman,
and looking to see whether she had become one, he saw new depths in
her eyes. 'Well, Stella, if she deserts I must trust to you,' he said.
'Have you seen much of her state of mind?'
'Not much,' said Stella. 'I think,' and her eyes filled with tears,
'that it is so much worse for her than for any of us--that she is like
one bruised all over, who can't bear the least touch, and it comes
on her all the more to-day, because she has been occupied by Felix
hitherto, and now he wants her less.'
'But is not she specially unkind to you, Stella?'
'Oh! don't call it that. I believe she can't bear to see me, because I
put her so in mind of dear Baby.' And the bright tears dropped.
The simple-hearted child had no idea of any deeper and more personal
cause of irritation; nor was it possible to pursue the subject, for
whereas the innocent's entrance to Paradise was not to cost the central
feast of the Christian year one wreath, Angela's defection threw much
toil upon her. The funeral was to be late on the Saturday afternoon,
for the convenience of poor Yates's friends; and all must be finished
before, with the help of Bernard, Lance, and Will Harewood, who had
come down, like the brother he was, and was a welcome assistant to
Clement, just as Angela's secession seemed like the last straw that
would break the camel's back!
The best exhilaration was perhaps an occasional visit to the
painting-room, where Felix and Geraldine were so peacefully thankful
to be together again, that they hardly breathed a word to one another.
And there was comfort too in finding how much the tone of young Light
was softening from its hard defiance. Lance, who had a good deal of
experience, and was to the young tradesmen at Bexley much what he had
been to the choristers at Minsterham, had devoted himself to the sick
lad, and had certainly produced an effect upon him.
Felix was recovering strength quickly. As there was an awkward step
into the painting-room, he begged the next day to perform the journey
on his own feet; and though he needed both the balustrade and Clement's
arm, and was still sharply pained by any sidelong movement, this was
wonderful progress in so few days. Here he meant to be during the
funeral, and to hear the service through the window opening into the
transept. There were many dissuasions, but he was for the first time
resolute on his own will, both to listen and to be alone. 'It is not
nearly so likely to overcome me,' he said, 'as if any one were with me.
I shall lie quietly back, and listen as to a most soothing strain!'
'Yes,' argued Cherry; 'but why risk it?'
'I cannot do the last thing for my boy, but it is the nearest I can
come to it! The son of my right hand, as Father said! So he has been;
I only know now what an incentive his dependence was, and how this
loosens me from the world.'
'Please don't say that! We have been too much frightened, and you are
getting well so fast.'
'I think so!' he acquiesced, but without much elasticity. 'Yet it was a
great element of thankfulness that night, and is so still, though the
air seems empty without his constant music.'
Many a note of praise was to come to his ears that day, as the choir
preceded their little member across the lawn to the Church gate. Their
voices predominated in the Psalms; and the Lesson, read by Mr. Colman,
the vicar of poor Yates's parish at Ewmouth, was almost inaudible
through the window; but the Lord's Prayer at the graves came to his ear
like 'the voice of many waters;' and the final hymn, the same which had
been last on Theodore's lips, was sung by the tones of a multitude, and
thrilled mightily through the summer air.
Felix was not the worse, though afterwards three doctors came up
and tormented him, ending by allowing him to do whatever suited his
own feelings and discretion, only bidding him not persevere in what
pained him, and to rest thoroughly between every exertion. He asked no
questions, and seemed quite satisfied; but Clement was more explicit in
his inquiries in private, and was told that where there was so little
power of examination, it was impossible to certify whether any harm was
done beyond the undoubted sprain, and that this might make itself felt
for months, even years, without anything but muscles being in fault;
nor could either of the May physicians detect any cause for alarm,
except a vague impression that the countenance was more changed than
was accounted for by the pain or loss of blood. There had been from
the first an indescribable stricken look, less evident now as the face
varied with animation, but recurring in repose, and taking away that
youthfulness that had endured so long.
Nothing of all this was said beyond Clement's study; the others
remained happy in the verdict of remarkable improvement. Dr. May had
brought a note from his daughter.
DEAREST CHERRY,
I long to come, and dare to think I should be welcome, but Tom
will not let Papa bring me. At least I know it is all right.
I knew it would be. Lives with so many bound up in them are
not so lightly wrenched away. The world cannot grow dark by
losing the selfless. All my soul is with you. Your dear little
Theodore has not lived in vain. Your ways--all of you--to him
have been bitter reproof to me. Write to me all I cannot pick
out of Papa. I hope Lancelot is looking better. Tell him I
shall try his 'Lightning Messages,' as soon as I can play them
without my eyes swimming or my voice getting upon the howl.
With my dear love,
Your affectionate
G.M. MAY.
Cherry gave the note to Lance to read, expecting to hear no more of
it; but he brought it out in the late evening as she was settling some
Pursuivant business with him, in preparation for his departure by the
early train on the Monday. 'Do you want this?' he asked.
'You may keep it if you like.'
He sighed, holding it close. 'I say--does he know--the Squire?'
'Of her coming over? No; I don't think any one saw her.'
'He ought. I had begun to think so before, but this note convinces me
on whose account she came.'
'I don't imagine she knew she came on any one's account in particular.'
'All the nicer of her, but so much the worse for me. Look here, Cherry.
Did you know I had been at Stoneborough on Monday? Well, she showed
plain enough how it was. Every hope seemed gone--crushed--done for. I
was so dazed, that if you said it was I who upset the boat, I shouldn't
wonder. I had lived upon the thought ever since Christmas. O Cherry, I
do love her so!' cried the poor lad, quite beyond his usual reserved
self-control.
'Yes; she is very bright and sweet,' said Cherry, by way of sympathy.
'The Daisy! the light of every place she goes to!' he went on. 'How
different she made it all last winter! and I was fool enough to
think--Well, it is no good to talk of Monday morning, but it was
just falling from Paradise to the abyss; and all the night after I
was savage with them all for having dragged me back--nearly mad more
than once, I believe. Then in the morning, when I had just stumbled
out into church, not able to put two thoughts together, but with only
sense enough to know that if I laid my love and my life on the Altar
as best I could, God would take them and make the right thing of them
somehow--I looked up, and saw her in the morning sunshine clinging to
me--the dear thing--then I did believe God had given her to me.'
'Dear Lance! still--'
'No; I understand now. The fancy bore me up from I don't know what,
till I had got myself in hand again; but when I look at it reasonably,
I see she was glad to find me alive, out of common humanity, and
because she thought she had vexed me; but as to the real feeling, this
note shows plainly enough where that goes.'
'If it were so, there would hardly be such openness of expression.'
'Do you think so?' (eagerly, then catching himself up). 'No; it is only
that the consciousness has never been brought out.'
'I don't believe _he_ will ever voluntarily bring out anybody's
consciousness.'
'Then he ought! Why is he to debar himself from happiness, and
disregard other people's feelings? I tell you, it is positively wrong
to keep hanging about him and hampering him. You would do much better
to leave him to be happy, and come and let us get on together as we can
at home. You might make it just tolerable!'
'My poor Lancey,' said Cherry, smiling, 'things are hardly so far
advanced; but if they were, you would be my best dependence.'
'But you'll tell him? And let no fancy stand in the way of his--of
their happiness.'
'Tell? You mean of her coming over? Very well, if you think it right.
Nay, indeed, it is not the wish to keep him to myself, but the
assurance of his resolution--and, dear old Lancey, I don't like your
going back to the old mill without the bird in your bosom.'
He hid his face in both his arms as he sat over the table, but
recovering himself, said, 'Never mind! Hoping for him is _some_ hope,
and there's too much on hand for being down in the mouth. It will all
come right somehow,' he repeated, secure in that faith, even under his
sense of disappointment; but after all, is not a generous consent the
best balm in disappointment?
After this conversation, Cherry and Lance were struck, amid a somewhat
astonished congregation, when the next day, the Vicar in his pulpit
gave out in his clear ringing voice, like a trumpet proclamation, his
text, 'And His Banner over me is Love.'
The church was quite full. The beauty of its musical services had
of late rendered it a resort from Ewmouth, and the present occasion
had attracted every one connected with the persons concerned in the
accident, as well as many of the curious. Mr. Colman, whose despair
was the young clerkhood of Ewmouth, had protested against having to
preach; and indeed Clement felt that he had a word to say, for had not
the week been one of intensified feeling, and deepened experience?
Yet even his brothers and sisters were not only sorry when they found
this task unexpectedly lapsing on him, but feared that he was hardly
adequate to the occasion. In general he was a careful preacher, very
exact, and rather tediously accurate in citing arguments, much given to
similitude and mystical interpretation, and instructive and interesting
in a certain degree; but without much fire or individuality, and, as
the Hepburn clique asserted, deficient in the root of the matter.
But his voice made Cherry look at him, and his countenance not only
glowed with unusual colour, but had a dignity and impressiveness that
assured her that she should hear something different from usual, after
a text so unlikely for a funeral discourse.
After twice proclaiming that Banner under which he served, he slowly
and distinctly spoke those other words, '"One shall be taken and
another left. They say unto Him, Where, Lord?" Yes! Strange, startling,
arbitrary, as seem often the calls to the soldiers in Christ's army,
each is at its true time, for the choice is made in Love.' Then came
the description of the mighty host, of their Leader and their conflict,
steadfast in the Name that the day's Feast glorified, going forth
conquering and to conquer, but, strange contradiction! under the Banner
of Love. Love, by which their Captain had won, the work to which all
were enlisted, the weapon wherewith each was to fight. Love had been
their Captain's weapon, but they needed another, namely, Faith--for
who could fight for a vision--who, without reliance on his general?
Cause and Captain, and His power to save to the uttermost, were dwelt
on in a few ardent words; and then came the picture of the serried
ranks, standing fast in one army, warring as one band against darkness,
foulness, cruelty, and all other evils, each fighting his individual
battle in private, yet even thus striking as much for the cause as for
himself. So they stood, soldiers in a campaign, aware that any moment
might snatch them out of the ranks, yet also aware that not one would
be taken save at the right moment when his warfare had come to the
crisis. Our forefathers of old believed in glorious maidens who floated
over the battle-field as choosers of the slain, and bore hero-spirits
away to the Home of Triumph in chariots of light, to dwell among the
brave. Like them we believe in the Triumphant Home, where dwell the
brave who have stood steadfast in faith, joyful through hope, rooted
in charity, bright in purity, dashing down the arrows of temptation
that glint against their armour. Like them, we believe in a Chooser of
the slain, bearing us, one by one, from our several posts, with longer
or shorter warning, exactly when our warfare is accomplished, our
individual battle is, or ought to be, won.
'Is or ought to be! That is the point. That is it on which depends
the awful question, "Where, Lord?" which He who has seen beyond the
grave, left unanswered. Where? Less than a week ago, on one of the
days especially given to us for joy and gladness, in the very height
of our mirth, came the moment of danger to fifteen of us. For thirteen
of us, thanks have been today returned. "Where, Lord?" has not been
said of us, but has not its echo been with us? Where? When I look back
on duties neglected, on self-complacencies, on purposes fulfilled
on the surface but not in the spirit, on cold-hearted devotions, on
a thousand treasons against the Banner of Love, I can only cry out,
"Where Lord?" and bless Him that it is the Lord my Redeemer, Who looks
mercifully on His unprofitable servants, of whom the question is asked,
and Who has spared me for a little space. He calls in due season. But
whether the summons be welcome or the reverse, does not depend on its
finding us in sunshine summer pleasure, or upon a bed of pain. No--it
depends on whether we are really in our camp, our face to the foe,
our ensign above us, no treason or desertion at heart. Then, spite of
short-comings and failures, with the Banner over us that is Love, we
shall know that death is victory; and "Where, Lord?" will be answered
for ever by "Him Who liveth and was dead, and is alive for evermore."'
Felix, from his window, caught the texts, and noted the breathless
hush. The Vicar of Ewmouth said, as he took leave, 'Thank you. You have
touched hearts I could not reach.'
And Lance followed Clement to the library, and begged for the sermon
for the Pursuivant. 'I know they would read it at Bexley, and if they
care for it as I do, it ought to tell. I never heard you go on like
that!'
'Here are my notes, but they will do you little good; I could not write
last night.'
'You came up late enough, though!'
'I had to make it up in thought and prayer.'
'A better thing, it seems,' said Lance. 'It is a sermon to set one
going, however things look!'
He was nearly at Bexley the next morning by the time Felix had
fulfilled his intention of coming down-stairs, and had taken his seat
in the Squire's chair before the writing-table, but with his back
to the door whence the musical hum would never more issue. Cherry
wanted to have put it off; and Clement had proposed an exchange of
sitting-rooms; but he had said such things were best faced at once,
while no association made much difference.
Cherry was with him, looking over the letters of inquiry and
condolence, and sorting out those which she would answer at once, or he
undertake by degrees--looking too at the first Pursuivant in which for
at least twelve years he had had no share, and which, he said, told him
more about the accident than he had yet known.
'Lance has fared better than could have been hoped,' he said. 'I feared
for both chest and head.'
'I believe he was very ill the first night,' said Cherry.
'Then--was it my fancy, or did not I hear Gertrude May's voice?'
'How could you hear it?'
'Through the open window, at the hall-door, as Tom May was going. Did
she come over with the carriage, good girl?'
'Yes; but we never guessed that you knew it.'
'Many things were borne in on me in a passive sort of way,' said Felix,
'and among them the trust that she was as good an elixir to the boy as
in the winter.'
'Quite true! I believe the glow she excited saved him from an illness;
but he has come to another conclusion since.'
'Well--what?'
'I should not tell you, but for his entreaty. He thinks she cares less
for him than for you.'
'Nonsense! He may put that out of his head, poor boy.'
The colour mounted in his bloodless cheek, but the decision of the tone
satisfied Geraldine.
At that moment, however, the door was gently opened, and Stella, her
cheeks more deeply tinted than their wont, quietly said, 'Brother,
Captain Audley is here. He wants to know whether you are well enough to
see him.'
Cherry divined what was coming; but Felix exclaimed, 'Captain Audley!
How kind! Tell him I am quite ready.--But you had better make yourself
scarce, Cherry; the poor man has met one lady already, and I can't
answer for the consequences of his falling in with another.'
There he was interrupted by her contention with his instinctive impulse
to rise and give her his arm--a token of improvement; for whereas
yesterday he had apologised whenever she crossed the room without him,
to-day he began getting up, but was checked by the twinge betrayed by
lips and brow, and as Lord Gerald had been fortunately left ashore,
Cherry professed to have her most constant supporter.
Another moment, and Captain Audley crossed her, and bowed to her, as
she repaired to the drawing-room, from the window of which she saw
the two young things, not idling--Stella never dawdled--but cutting
flowers, and filling the whole stock of vases which she had brought
out, to renew the cheerfulness of the house for its convalescent master.
The sight was pretty, but Cherry wondered whether she ought to go out
and protect her little sister's peace, deciding however, that whatever
harm there was must have been done already, and that accessibility was
her best condition for the present; and so she sat down to begin some
of the numerous letters, though their subject was most incongruous with
that of her anticipations, and she wrote with divided attention, till
Felix came into the room.
'Cherry,' said he, deliberately placing himself on the settee, 'Had you
any notion of this?'
'Only the last day or two, very dimly. Has it come to anything?'
'That I want to ascertain. Which did you think it was?'
'The poor little star, I'm afraid.'
'Why afraid?'
'Because there must be breakers ahead, and that poor little dear need
not have been molested for years to come.'
'Is she molested?'
'Look! Ah, no! you can't turn; but if you could see them on the lawn!'
'She is such a child. She might be with him as simply as with Will.'
'I'm afraid that is over. Is not the Captain dead against it?'
'No; that's the odd thing. She seems to have vanquished him on the spot
by one glint of her bonnie blue een, and he has not the heart to say
No; but the worst of it is, he has no power.'
'He should not have let his son loose here.'
'So he allows, and that I saw clearer than he--which I did not, for my
suspicions were in another direction, and I fear not without cause, on
one side at least.'
'That's the horrid part of it!'
'So persuaded was I, that I went on at cross-purposes at first, and had
to ask point-blank which of my sisters he meant, but I don't think I
betrayed Angela. What is to be done about her?'
'Oh! tiresome love! Why could they not let you alone a little while? I
think Angela has some notion, and that it must be what has made her so
very queer.'
'Perhaps! I thought it was her share in the disaster, poor girl!'
'That would not have made her almost spiteful to poor little Stella.'
'Where is she now?'
'Gone to the penny-club business as usual.'
'I hope this will be over before she comes back. I must speak to my
little one, only first let me hear what you think about it. The Captain
has been most straightforward with me. He explained that he never was a
favourite at home, and his marriage was a case of extorted consent. His
wife was never cordially treated, and he could not forget the slights
she received. Neither party wanted the other, and he had got into his
lonely yachting existence, when, unluckily for him, his elder brother's
death has rendered him and his boy important. The widow lives with the
old people, and he thinks they want Charlie to marry the daughter. They
want him to spend his vacations with them, and he is always shirking.'
'I have heard him bemoan himself.'
'The worst of it is, that if the old people take offence, they are
likely to leave the bulk of the property to the grand-daughter. The
Captain says he hates it all, and would freely let it go; but at
Charlie's age, it would not be right to let him incur such a forfeit
blindly.'
'They are both too young for anything.'
'Precisely so; but the thing must be either suffered or not, and it
is a mere subterfuge to call it nothing, and let him be always about
here. If the child knows nothing, the boy's mouth could be stopped, at
least till he has taken his degree. I came to see whether that be still
possible. You think not? Well, I have some hope of her simplicity. If
not, what think you of this? We tell them they are a couple of babies,
and bind the fellow to keep away somewhere till he has taken his
degree, when it will either have blown over, or he can judge whether to
take to a profession and endanger his prospects, and there will be some
test whether he really cares for the poor little dear.'
'I'm afraid there is trial for her any way!'
'The difficulty I foresee, is in keeping the Captain up to anything.
If he were set against it, our part would be much easier; but he seems
to have surrendered at first sight of our Fair-Star, and he is weaker,
more impulsive, and undecided than I could have conceived.'
'He has been indulging his feelings all his life. I should not wonder
if Charlie were the more sensible.'
'Our other baby! So! I must see how far it has gone.'
'No! I'll call her. Don't move.'
'A shocking reversal,' resigning himself, 'but I believe you had
rather. I don't mind walking; it is getting up and sitting down that
beats me. Don't startle the child. There's still hope that he has not
stirred the waters.'
Cherry had no such hope, as she stood at the conservatory door, calling
Stella. Both came up to her; and as she sent the girl to her brother,
Charlie looked at her with an anxious 'Well?' as the colour deepened in
his honest face.
'I think your father is in the study,' she evasively said.
'Come, now, Miss Underwood, I am sure you know all about it. What sort
of a chance have I?'
'I don't think you ought to have any chance at your age. Indeed,
Charlie, I do wish you had let it alone for the present.'
'I assure you, I didn't know I wasn't going to let it alone; but what
could I do when I found the dear little darling crying enough to
overset a mill-stone? One couldn't but do one's best to comfort her;
and when I found I had really got over the line, and been making sheer
love, I could not but have it out and go on with it.'
'Then was it only that moment?'
'No! no! no! I'd known her for my Star, my light, my darling, ever
since I can't tell when; but of course I knew what a shindy there would
be, and as long as I could come here and look at her, I could have gone
on quietly till I was of age, and could fight it out. Only when it came
to her being lonely--'
'Do you think she knew it for what you say?'
Charlie shrugged his shoulders, laughed, and coloured.
'And your father?'
'That _is_ comical,' he said confidentially. 'He was dead against it!
hummed and hawed, called me no end of fools, said I should be cut off
with a shilling, and told me how my grandmother bullied my poor mother.
I'd hard work to haul him here, and he said it was only to beg the
Squire's pardon, cram full of objections. Well, there was the darling
girl gathering forget-me-nots in the garden, with Scamp and the doves
round her. "That's she, bless her!" says I. "Is it she?" says he; and
with that, he whips out of the skiff, leaving me to moor it, you see,
looks her full in the face--I believe he hadn't seen a young lady to
look at since my mother died--"Are you Charlie's little Stella?" says
he; and behold, there he is, giving her a regular paternal kiss, before
I could get quit of the boat. And when one's own father is all right,
who is to make objections?'
Stella's examination had been short. Felix held out his hands, took
hers, and gazing into her blushing face, said, 'Look at me, my child,
and tell me if you know what Captain Audley is come for.'
She hung her flower-like head, and answered, 'I think I do.'
'And what do you think of it?'
'O Brother,' the eyes overflowed, 'I didn't know it was _that_, when
he came and was so good to me, or I would not have been so unkind in
all the trouble. I only thought how nice he was. Indeed it was not
forgetting Tedo.'
'No, indeed, my sweet; that was the last thing I meant. Only, since you
do know the meaning of it, tell me--whether you like it.'
'Like! O Brother! It did just seem to take away all the unhappiness. I
couldn't help it, you know!'
'Ah! No, no, my dear, you didn't hurt me. Now will you be patient, so
as not to get Charlie into trouble, and trust me?'
'Trust you, Brother?' in a tone of wonder, as if it would have been
impious to do otherwise; and then she faltered, 'I thought Captain
Audley didn't mind it _much_--for, Brother, he kissed me.'
'He is ready to like you with all his heart; but he has a father too,
and can't do all he pleases. So you may have to be kept waiting to grow
older.'
'Oh yes,' said Stella; 'I know I'm too young, and I could not go away
from everybody for a long long time.'
So the edict was given in form, with more assumption of authority on
Felix's part than had been his wont towards his sisters' lovers; but
he saw it was the best way to spare the little maid from what might
prove trifling and end in disappointment, and the young lover from
unfair usage of his grandparents, and its punishment. Someone must be
resolute, and the father would not; so the brother had to depict the
impossibility of fostering an attachment between an undergraduate and a
child, under the certainty of displeasing the head of the family.
Charlie argued that it was hard his father's consent should not
suffice--that he cared not for the property--he would go to his uncle
in Australia, become printer's-devil at Bexley--anything to be free
to win his Cynosure, while his father seemed far more disposed to
applaud him than to say, Nonsense; and it fell to Felix to explain that
whatever course Charlie might decide on, it must not be till his Oxford
career was ended, and that till then there must be neither engagement
nor correspondence, and the vacation must be spent elsewhere, since
daily meetings in present circumstances would be a wrong towards all
parties concerned.
Captain Audley could not gainsay that this was both reasonable and
honourable, and even reminded Charlie of an invitation from Lord
Liddesdale, to pay a visit at his foreign embassy in the long vacation.
Meantime there was to be nothing to bind either party; but as Charlie
had to return to Oxford that night, a parting interview was allowed in
the drawing-room, in which he raved a good deal, and she was very quiet
and rational.
Then Felix was left to repose, which he so sorely needed as to have to
give up both coming in to dinner, and driving to meet Mr. Fulmort.
'Sisters' lovers are tough customers,' he said. 'Thank you, Cherry,'
as she elevated the front and lowered the back of his chair, so as to
render it a couch; 'it is well for me that you would have nothing to
say to the sculptor.'
She kissed him silently; and as she looked at the pallid sunken
face, with the eyes closed, she recollected her declaration that he
must be more to her dead than any other man alive, and though far
from retracting the sentiment, she wished she had uttered nothing so
ill-omened.
The effect on Angela was the present anxiety; and it was impossible
not to feel it staved off by the announcement, through a school-child,
that she was staying to dine and spend the rest of the day at Miss
Hepburn's. Whatever this might portend, it was a present relief to
Cherry, though Clement looked very gloomy upon it; and the Vicar of St
Matthew's had not been many hours in the house before Cherry, rather
to her own surprise, found herself invited into Clement's library, to
assist at a council over the perplexing girl.
Neither brother nor sister could say more than that, up to the moment
of the accident, she had been in her usual state of ultra-observance
and ultra-gaiety, alike wilful and exaggerated, and that on finding
herself the real delinquent in the fatal catastrophe, she had petrified
into hard fierce reserve. On Sunday alone had she been at Church, and
then had been absent from the Feast where all the family had met; she
had thrown over all the little ecclesiastical offices that had been her
pride and pleasure, and repelled all sympathy, except perhaps that of
the ladies to whom she had been most opposed, and whom she had derided
and contemned for years. Indeed, she might be said to have hoisted
their flag, for the cross round her neck had been discarded, and her
hair had descended from the stupendous fabric which no asseveration
would avail to persuade the Miss Hepburns to be of native growth, and
was now coiled about her head--with an effect, certainly, preferable in
itself, save for the signification. Things were come to a droll pass,
that the absence of Angel's lofty coiffure should be complained of by
one vicar to the other; but Mr. Fulmort had been Angela's first guide,
who had prepared her for Confirmation and Communion, and Clement had
from the first looked to him to deal with her; but Mr. Fulmort was
scarcely encouraging. 'Nothing will be gained by forcing me on her,' he
said. 'If I cannot draw, driving will be of no avail.'
'If Miss Isabella has got hold of her,' said Cherry, 'she is likely to
imitate the people in books whose first act of virtue is shunning their
priest; and when Angel's conscience gets on the side of perverseness,
there is no saying what she will not do.'
'One is so in the dark!' said Clement.
'I think I can guess the process,' said the elder clergyman. 'Only
actual experience teaches that no system is infallible.'
'Of all plans of education, I should have chosen hers!' said Clement.
'So we trusted to the framework!'
'And how admirably it has answered with Robina, and many more.'
'As far as we see; but this is what I imagine this poor child's
history. She has more vehemence and energy than depth, and her
musical taste found ritual so congenial, that excitability passed for
devotion, in spite of the lack of trustworthy fruit of submission or
self-discipline.'
'I believe it did.'
'So she is in a manner justified in complaining that she was allowed to
trust to the shell alone. She has been content with the outward form
all this time; and when real sorrow makes her find its failure, she
is naturally distrustful of the whole teaching that was to her mere
surface work.'
'Nothing could be more ungrateful, or improper, than to charge it on
you, Sir,' cried the younger vicar.
'Less unjust than you think, though there may be some human nature in
it too. When my sister collected those girls, we thought, like most who
try experiments, that we had a set of puppets, on whom certain wires
must produce certain results--and if we saw untoward specimens, charged
it on the want of our system.'
'The system is not ours, but Divine.'
'There was a Divine system in the Wilderness, but with how many did it
succeed?'
'According to that,' said Clement, 'nothing would be anybody's fault.'
'And,' said Geraldine, 'did it not succeed with all the mighty men who
overlived Joshua?'
'True; but even of that generation, who had never seen Egypt, there
were many who lacked faith to drive out the Canaanites. It is the same
story over and over again. People who have been led out of something
like Egypt, are apt to think those secure who have never been from
under the shadow of the Cloud, and have known no bread but manna. We
forget how much depends on being "mixed with faith in the hearers."'
'Faith cannot be given from without,' said Clement.
'Certainly not; but looking back at our dealing with our earlier
pupils, I suspect that we worked away with the peculiarities we had
newly discovered, rather than with the great universal foundations.
I am sure we did so with you, Underwood: though happily there was
stuff enough beneath to prevent us from doing more than make you
unnecessarily priggish.'
'Geraldine can testify that that was done to your hand, Sir,' said
Clement, laughing. 'I believe I should have made any place I cared for
odious in the ears of my family.'
'We did not know how much party spirit we infused, fancying that
once in our groove all must go right. Now, I believe Angela ought
to have been held back. She would have done better in a commonplace
well-principled school.'
'I don't think her teachers were deceived in her,' said Cherry.
'No; but the observances which she genuinely enjoyed deceived herself.
Probably at a dull bare service she would have been naughty and
uninterested, but then she would have known her religion for what it
was worth. I don't say that I see what ought to have been done, if
we could begin over again; but I do see that she has found out her
unreality in the time of distress, and concludes that the fault is in
what we taught her. To use another metaphor, she thinks that because
the Cross has been decked with flowers, it has been no Cross at all;
but I trust she is learning the way thither.'
'By casting aside the means?' said Clement.
'Because to her they had not been means, but mirages. If I understand
rightly, this is her first true awakening.'
'But is it to be a regular case of conversion?'
'I hope so. I pray so.'
'Is she to be left to these women, to learn contempt for the Sacraments
and the Church?'
'Are they Churchwomen?'
'After a fashion! I don't believe they hold a single Catholic doctrine.'
'They never say the Creed--eh?'
Clement looked abashed.
'If she were likely to be led into an act of schism, it might be
needful to interfere; but if they seem to be bringing her to the sense
of repentance and individual spiritual contact, which is the essential
need, resistance would do more harm than good.'
'Why should she not come the right way?'
'Do you remember Ezekiel's pure springs, which the evil shepherds had
fouled with their feet, so that the flock could not drink thereof?
Without classing you among evil shepherds, whatever I may do with
myself, is it not natural to turn from what has been without benefit?'
'By her own fault. And is she to follow their ways, without check or
warning?'
'They are communicants?'
'Four times a year. Frequent Celebrations seem to them superstitious
and formal.'
'And irreverent,' added Cherry.
'Is it not doubtful whether our poor girl have been reverent? Should
not we perhaps be keeping her back for a time?'
'Not for their reasons.'
'No; but if she be in the way to what she needs and we have failed to
afford her, it seems to me that while it is within the Church, we had
better abstain from distracting her attention by trying to make her do
things in our own way.'
'_Our_ way, Sir?' said Clement, whose mind was never rapid; 'it is the
right way. I cannot understand sitting still to see my sister carried
off into ultra Low Church.'
'Better that than incur the risk of taking party spirit for zeal and
diverting her attention from vital religion to the excitement of
persecution.'
'There's nothing that would gratify her more,' said Cherry.
'It is exceedingly mortifying,' added Mr. Fulmort, 'to see one's own
child going over to a rival battalion, which disesteems our ensigns and
war-cries; but by your own account it is no worse--the army is all one.
And for ourselves, nothing can be more wholesome. I wish it all fell on
me, since the mismanagement began with me; but unluckily it comes most
heavily on you, both as brother and parish-priest.'
Clement was of course disarmed and humbled. 'No doubt you are right,
Sir: I will try to accept the personal vexation as my due; I did not
know how much it biassed me. Shall you take no notice?'
'I shall express the interest I feel as old friend and guide, but I
shall not insist on confidence.'
He could afford to bide this time, for he contrived to give a parson's
week, on finding how heavily this sad Whitsuntide had told upon
Clement, coming at the end of a clergyman's hardest half-year. Change
could not be had, for Felix was not fit for a journey, and was still
so much disabled as to be unable to put on his clothes unaided; but
nothing could be better for both brothers than the presence of this
friend, bringing them fresh interests from the great arena of conflict
between good and evil, and giving warm sympathy and satisfaction to
their efforts in their own field. One of his scholars, at least, he
confessed to have far surpassed his expectations. He had never expected
to see his tall, docile, self-complacent chorister all the man that the
Vicar of Vale Leston Abbas had become; but on the other hand, Angela,
once almost his devotee, eluded him by every means in her power, and
never willingly opened her lips in his presence. When at last he
succeeded in catching her, and expressing surprise that she was rushing
away when the church-bell was ringing, her reply was, 'I've done with
those things!'
'With prayers?'
'With heartless forms.'
'So I should hope.'
'Let me go, Mr. Fulmort; I don't want to be ungrateful, but it is all
one great mistake.'
'I am afraid you have found it so.'
His tone was sad, and made her exclaim, 'You feel it too, then? Oh,
come and learn as I have learnt--see as I have seen!' Some men would
have laughed at this sudden reversal of the order of things; but Mr.
Fulmort felt the matter far too seriously, and the sound of inquiry
he emitted encouraged her to go on. 'Oh; the hollowness of my old
life--the utter lack of all aid or light when the hour of darkness
came--the misery, the agony, that racked me all day and all night, when
all you told me to trust to proved broken reeds. Would that I could
proclaim to all what it was to see at last in Whom--in what assurance
lies peace!'
'Yes, my child,' he said. 'There truly lies the only hope. May you be
able to grasp it firmly, and for ever, and render the fruits of faith
and repentance apparent in your life.'
'I shall never put my trust in my own works again. I hate them--I
loathe them.'
'You cannot do better than repent, and bring them for forgiveness.'
'To the foot of the Cross?'
'Certainly.'
'Then you really see the hollowness and emptiness of the system of
thinking them pardoned by a man's voice?'
'Did I ever tell you they were?'
She was a little conscience-stricken, but rallied enough to say, 'It
is the whole principle of auricular confession, to which nothing shall
ever bring me back. Not the utmost persecution!' and as he smiled a
little, she added, 'It was all form and human intervention.'
'If you can say so from personal experience, Angela,' he replied,
'it proves how lamentably I have failed to express my doctrine and
intention, and how vain it is for me to try to converse with you.
Indeed, I only attempted it because I knew you had had a great shock,
and were unhappy.'
'Unhappy till I turned my back on the world and its vanities, and
beheld the true and simple way of salvation! Would you but let me show
it to you!'
'My dear child, do you think I have feebly tried to follow my Master
all these years, and never seen it? If I have so totally failed in
guiding you to it, my words alone were in fault, and it is well that
the one Truth has been brought to bear upon you. I thank Him for it,
and pray that some day you may be led to _full_ truth.'
There he quitted her; and she could report that Mr. Fulmort had tried
to get her under his direction again, and that she had almost brought
him to own the emptiness of the system that he inculcated. That he did
not was, Miss Martha decided, wholly owing to the Old Adam.