THE TASK OVER.
'If you might, would you now
Retrace your way,
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hopes smiles around us shed,
Heavenward away!'
_Lady Nairne._
Felix, Cherry, and Gerald were taking one of their slow drives with
Master Ratton, when a tall horse passed them, and with the shout 'As
right as a trivet,' Charles Audley the younger waved his hat and rode
on, leaving them to meditate on his announcement. 'A three legged
article,' as Cherry said, 'hardly suited the felicity he seemed to
intend.'
Charlie had not gone in for honors, but had obtained the flattering
assurance that he would have had them if he had tried. The
announcement, backed perhaps by some mediation of his uncle, had
brought an offer of a private secretaryship from Lord Liddesdale, and
therewith armed, he had made the awful plunge at the Hall--his father
and uncle both waiting to defend his independence.
Behold! Sir Robert and Lady Margaret had comported themselves like
lambs. Either the scheme for Charlie's union with his cousin had been
a figment, or they were glad to get the sole hope of their house
married at all, or they were gratified by Lord Liddesdale's estimate
of him, and had learnt wisdom by the ill effects of former opposition.
Anyway their consent had been startlingly facile. They heeded birth
more than wealth: Stella, with her own legacy and Theodore's, was
not unportioned, and an Underwood of Vale Leston had such undeniable
county blood that they never connected the younger Charles's ravings
with the alarms that had elicited their consent to the elder Charles's
expatriation fourteen years ago. Moreover Lady Liddesdale, who had
been the young man's confidante, had promised to be a mother to his
bride. She had just married off her last daughter, and wanted a young
companion, and she offered rooms at the Embassy, and whatever Charlie
could wish for his wife in the way of help and kindness.
So here was the young gentleman in tempestuous ecstasy, announcing that
there could be no delay, for he was wanted at the Embassy by the middle
of February.
The elder brothers and sisters expected to see their nestling
distracted by the summons to a distant home in a strange land, but her
equanimity amazed them all. She was Charlie's property, and it was only
natural to be claimed. 'Every one did,' she said, and she would have
been quite as contented to go with him to a City lodging or to the
Australian bush as to the splendours of the Embassy.
Wilmet thought her too young to realize what it all meant, and held
that she ought to wait a year or two; but Felix would hear of this as
little as the captain, having no doubt that the calm, self-contained,
thoughtful nature would be equal to whatever it might be called on
to meet; and though Charlie was the younger in character, he was a
thoroughly good, trustworthy fellow, nor would they begin with an
independent home. Besides, was not Lady Liddesdale own sister to
'Sister Constance'?
The announcement of this splendid engagement mollified Marilda, who
wrote heartily, and offered services either of hospitality or of
choice of wedding clothes. Stella could not bear to leave home, but
she was overruled. It was due to the Ambassadress that her outfit
should neither be countrified nor left to Marilda's taste; so Wilmet
took her to London for a week, and by Felix's desire expended the
child's own original inheritance from her father in garments that might
not disgrace the suite; the chief difficulty being that Stella had
made Charlie consent to her completing her year of mourning for her
brothers--a terrible grievance to Mrs. Underwood. Wilmet was meantime
the recipient of all Marilda's views as to the folly of Felix's
rejection of her offer to Gerald, over whom she absolutely seemed to
yearn--and she caught at the invitation to the wedding as at least
affording her a chance of seeing him, if not of bringing his uncle to
hear reason.
The marriage was to take place on New Year's Day, and as soon as the
bustle was over, 'Sister Constance' was actually coming to Vale Leston
to arrange for the branch of the St Faith's Sisterhood which was to be
established in connection with the future Church of the Comforter at
East Ewmouth. She was to choose among houses to let the temporary abode
of the sisters, but in the first place was to have a few days for the
young friends, who now ranked as old, and on Charles Audley the elder.
The oculist's verdict had not been hopeless, but it had obliged him
to give up all prospect of a return to a climate so noxious to the
eyes as that of Western Australia. His visit to his home had made it
evident that his place was no longer there. His parents were old and
self-occupied, and had little in common with him, chiefly depending on
their daughter-in-law, a complete woman of the world, thoroughly alien
to the clergyman who had spent his strength on wild 'black fellows'
and rude convicts. He was more trouble than pleasure to any of the
party, and deemed it inadvisable to endure the penance of idleness and
uncongeniality in their stately halls, since they gave him no opening
for being of use to them; and his brother, who would not leave him,
was always miserable there. Once the pet at home, 'poor Charles' was
mourned over for his peculiarities, and coughed down if he endeavoured
to explain them.
So as Clement was in the usual case of country Vicars, curate-hunting
in vain, Mr. Audley proffered himself as a 'demi-semi-assistant,'
able to do a good deal without book, and thankful for a refuge from
total inefficiency. Clement was rather shocked at finding himself in
such relations towards his old Guardian, almost a Bishop elect, but
rejoiced in the counsel and support of his experience even more than
in the actual aid, which indeed he greatly needed. And to Felix, the
intercourse with his first friend was the greatest delight, while there
was a rally in his health in the autumn that made even those who knew
the worst hope the evil was averted, and every one else viewed him as
recovering.
Perhaps he ventured a little too much in the greater sense of strength,
for Lady Hammond being unable to go out, and warmly anxious to see
the young couple, he took the long drive thither with them, and a few
days later went to a public meeting. There was an attack upon Church
influence in the Ewmouth hospital, and he went late, expecting only to
have to give his vote, but he found a storm raging such as he did not
expect, and his side of the question so inefficiently defended by its
few lay representatives, that he stood up and spoke for nearly an hour
with all his remarkable force and facility.
'I don't agree with you, Underwood,' said Mr. Walsh, as Felix, flushed
and panting, waited till the rush to the door was over to get to his
carriage, 'but you ought to be in the House; and that's much for a man
to say when you've just been the means of beating him. You are one of
the few who can make any life or sense out of the old cause.'
Clement was far from knowing whether to be glad or sorry, as Felix
made answer with very little more than a languid smile. The speech
certainly had, as the saying is, 'taken a great deal out of him,' and
was Cherry's '_cheval de bataille_' whenever any of the wedding guests
found fault with his appearance.
There was a grand family gathering, bringing together all the surviving
brothers and sisters, for the unexceptionable baronet connection had
even induced Sir Adrian Vanderkist to bring his wife and two eldest
children, who were to act bridesmaids, together with Robina and Angela,
Gertrude May and Miss Audley. Geraldine and Marilda had paired off
on the score of age, and little Mary Harewood was to wear a modified
edition of the bridesmaid's white cashmere and stars of Bethlehem,
whose green leaves gave the only colour the little bride would permit.
The calmly decided manner in which she obtained her own way against
fashion and conventionality amused everybody. Felix had hoped to have
brought Ferdinand Travis and Marilda together on this occasion, but
as soon as he found that Alda was coming, he had thought it better to
abstain, and was rather relieved when the clerk at Peter Brown's sent
information that Mr. Travis had left Barcelona, it was not known for
what place, and so that his letter could not yet be forwarded.
The Vanderkists arrived late on the Monday, and the next morning
Bernard conducted Sir Adrian to the covers he had been nursing up for
this great occasion, Fulbert stalking along with him, thinking how
hardly pressed stay-at-home people must be for something to do, if
_this_ were a sort of duty.
That last day of the old year was that on which Felix attained
his object of signing away the lay rectory. The action was so
unprecedented, and involved so many complications, that his strenuous
efforts had only succeeded in getting the needful documents brought
down from London with the marriage-settlements.
'Let me witness that,' said Mr. Audley: 'I am glad to have eyes enough
at least for such a sight.'
Felix's face was calmly happy as he wrote the 'Felix Chester
Underwood,' laid his finger on the seal, and spoke the 'I deliver
this as my act and deed,' by which the Rectory returned to be Church
property.
'It is a great load off my mind,' he said, handing the pen to Mr.
Audley and William Harewood, who said nothing to him, but merrily shook
hands with the new Rector, joking him on the additional substance and
consequence the title called for, jests the readier because they all
knew them to be empty, since East Ewmouth carried off the surplus
tithe, and he only obtained the title and the power over his Chancel.
Then Felix required their witness and the lawyer's to the will which
the numerous recent changes had necessitated, and they afterwards
carried the lawyer off to see the buildings, while Felix might rest
till the arrival of the other parties to the marriage-settlements.
However, they had not been gone long before a gentle knock came to the
door. 'Alda, my dear, are you come to pay me a visit?' and Felix met
her affectionately, and drew a chair for her close to his own.
'I thought I might come when your business was over,' she said. 'I have
scarcely seen you.'
'Have you been over the house? You remembered it! You have seen your
little girls in our own cribs at last.'
'Yes, I have so often wished to come, ever since you have been here.
You quite understand that I should have been so glad, only journeys are
so expensive, and we are so many.'
'I see.'
'That is one of the few ways in which I can save,' she said. 'It is
such an anxiety to have so many daughters.'
'Seven now?'
'Seven! Adrian says it makes us ridiculous. Poor children! That's what
I came to speak to you about, Felix. I want you to talk to Adrian.'
'About what?' asked Felix, not sanguine of either talking the daughters
into sons, or their father into preference of the sex.
'About some provision for them,' said the mother; and there ensued
an explanation that nothing was secured to the children but her own
portion from uncle Tom, while as to the estate, so long as there was
no male heir, Sir Adrian could do as he pleased with it, and at the
rate of his present expenditure there would be little left for his
successors; and Alda, with some vague idea of Felix's helpfulness, had
come to beg him to persuade her husband to insure his life, contract
his expenses, or do something that might secure her children from
dire poverty. She began with a wife's natural reticence and a guarded
voice, but gradually, as the home sense of being with the brotherly
protector of earlier days wrought upon her, she dropped her caution,
and disclosed the harass of her life. Her husband, it seemed, was more
and more devoted to the turf, and the display he thought needful to
his position, but while he grudged his wife every outlay needful to
maintain that ostentation, he was still more unwilling to allow her the
requisites for the health, comfort, and education of the children.
'He thinks anything will do for them,' said Alda, with a dismal
sharpness in her voice; 'he can't bear spending on anything but
himself.'
'No, no, Alda, it is hardly well to put such things into words.'
'I would not except to you, Felix; but indeed it does me good to have
it out. I get so disheartened, I would let everything take its chance,
but for my poor little girls. There is a wrangle over every cheque! If
I try to save in the housekeeping, he is angry about the dinners, and I
can't ask for money to pay bills without being blamed for extravagance.
Indeed, whether I get it or not, he is always cross with me all the
rest of the day. I'm ashamed to see all here in black, but he would not
let me do more than just wear a little slight mourning myself, and that
for a short time. He would not hear of it for the children. Felix, when
I see your peaceful faces and unruffled ways, I feel as if this were a
world of peace.'
'You must contribute gentleness yourself, my poor Alda.'
She had never answered him so humbly. 'Indeed I am obliged to try, but
you know I never was the good-tempered one at home, and it is very,
very hard when one is never very well, and always harassed and anxious.
I don't think, in the worst of times, Wilmet had to spend more thought
on pinching here and there to make both ends meet than I have, and at
least she had the comfort of keeping out of debt, and was thanked and
not despised! Will you speak to Adrian, Felix; of course not letting
him guess I told you, but beginning as if of yourself about the
children?'
'My dear, I can hardly promise, but whatever I can do for you I will.
Your little maidens seem to be sweet little, well-trained children, and
if they grow up united and affectionate they may be happier on small
means than you suppose.'
'The dinner of herbs and stalled ox,' said Alda; 'I have thought of
Mettie's rice stews many a time when I have sat quaking because there
were no truffles in the soup. Dear children, I am so glad they seem
nice to you. I do believe they have the good tempers of our family;
there are never any quarrels, and their grandmamma is so fond of them.
I do try to keep them good, and'--there were tears in her eyes--'it
does make one think more about _things_ to have those little ones round
one.'
'That is the blessing little Gerald brought to poor Edgar,' said Felix,
pressing the hand she had laid upon his knees. 'The greatest of all.'
'When I see you I know it is,' said poor Alda; 'but sometimes I think
if I had not been brought up religiously I should be happier, I should
not think things so bad; and then Adrian is never so cross as if he
thinks me wanting to be serious, or to make the children so. It makes
him dislike our being with his mother, though nothing is such a comfort
to me.'
'My dear, comfort will grow if you go on striving to submit meekly; do
your best with your children, and look beyond.'
He was really more hopeful about Alda than he had ever been. Just then
she said: 'One thing more. Mary and Sophy are old enough to need a
governess. I have managed so far with a _bonne_, but I have neither
time, spirits, nor ability to teach, and Adrian would be furious if I
asked him for a proper salary. Do you think Robina would come to us--to
live of course as my sister, on an equality? The delight and comfort it
would be----'
To poor Alda, thought Felix, but Robina ought not to be sacrificed. 'It
would not be right to ask her, remembering her engagement.'
'What engagement?'
'To Will Harewood.'
'My dear Felix, you don't mean that you have consented to anything so
foolish! How are they to live?'
'They have been for the last four years endeavouring to save. He makes
a good deal by his pupils, and by his writings, besides his fellowship,
and she adds something from her salary. They mean to get £5000 together
between them--her salary, and his fellowship, pupils and books--and
then take either a parish or a mastership at a school.'
'It seems to me sheer imprudence,' said the old Alda, half peevish
at the opposition; 'I did think she might have been glad to leave
strangers for the sake of her sister, and her natural position.'
'You forget the difference the salary makes to her prospects. She
has £150 a year, and it would not be right to ask her to give it up,
considering----'
'I can't see why my children should be sacrificed to William Harewood!'
'Perhaps not, but Robina might. No, Alda, it will not do. The De la
Poers have made her so happy that she feels Repworth another home, and
I should not like to ask her to leave it till she marries.'
'It is hard,' sighed Alda, in a tone not unlike those heard over the
shop of Bexley; but then followed another question: 'I want to know
what you think about Marilda?'
'About Marilda? You know she is coming this evening.'
'Yes, but about her intentions.'
'I did not know she had any intentions.'
'You see it is plain she will never marry now, and I used to be nearer
to her than any one. Don't look so amazed, Felix! I know she is only of
my age, and of course it is not so much with any immediate expectations
as for the sake of the influence there might be on Adrian. We used to
see a good deal of her at one time, but I believe he tried to borrow
money of her, and she spoke out in her rough way, so that he grew
angry, and made me hold aloof; but now I am sure he wants to make it up
with her again, he was so much put out about that little boy.'
'Little Gerald? How or why?'
'For fear she should want to adopt him, or make him her heir. Oh!
Felix, you will do nothing to promote that. Remember, my poor little
girls are just as near to you.'
'There's no fear of my promoting anything of the kind,' said Felix,
coldly; 'Gerald is provided for. No one here will scheme for him.'
'Don't be displeased with me, Felix,' she said, more meekly. 'Only if
Marilda should say anything----'
'The child whom dear Edgar expressly left to us we should not give up
to any one.'
'I thought not; only if anything should pass, do turn her mind to us.
It is not, of course, for the sake of the property, but if she just
showed that sort of interest, it would give her weight with Adrian, and
then if she suggests anything about the children he would be sure to
attend. I can't say it, but you might.'
The motive was, after all, not so blameworthy; but before any answer
could be given to this strange mixture of tokens of the long-dormant
good seed, and the choking weeds of worldly care, the door was softly
opened, a pretty glowing face peeped in, and was retreating with 'Oh!
I didn't know,' but the morrow's bride might interrupt anything, and
she was called back. 'Stella, my sweet Fair-Star, come in! Why, what
have you got there? How it sparkles! What is it?'
'Eh!' exclaimed Alda, 'I declare it is a bouquet of diamond flowers and
emerald leaves! I never saw anything more splendid. Where did it come
from?'
'Out of Aladdin's cave? or is it dewdrops fixed by star-light?' said
Felix, as the sparkles flashed on him. 'Stella, how did you come by it?
It is not Audley family jewels, eh?'
'The Audleys never had--' but Alda checked what would have been spite,
though Stella would not have minded it.
'Oh no,' she said. 'Cherry said you would guess.'
'Ferdinand Travis?' said Felix. 'Did he send it?'
'Charlie rowed him up in the skiff an hour ago, and ever since he has
been showing us how to put it together, for it was all in separate
velvet cases. It is all brooches and bracelets and necklaces, and a
thing for one's head--a complete set really, you see,' said Stella,
'but it is just like a puzzle putting it up like this, and it is much
prettier so.'
'Are you going to carry it as your bouquet to-morrow?'
'Oh no, that would never do!' interposed Alda.
'Oh no, I should not like that,' said Stella. 'Charlie has got me my
bouquet, and that's best.'
'Much better taste,' said Alda; 'but this is truly magnificent. You
will be prepared for the occasion, little Stella, even if you end as an
ambassadress. The cost must have been enormous.' And she sighed.
'I am afraid so,' said Stella, a little oppressed; 'but Charlie is so
pleased.'
'Yes, and Fernan can not only afford it, but must have thoroughly
enjoyed doing it, my Star; so you need not scruple; he has robbed
nothing he ought to benefit, you may be sure; so you may take lawful
pleasure in it, little one, and "rejoice in your jewels as a bride
doth."'
She smiled, but gravely. 'It is too beautiful,' she said. 'Isn't
it a pomp?' she whispered into her brother's ear, as he turned the
glittering thing about, enjoying the magic flashes of many-coloured
rays.
'It might be,' he said, 'but it is not yet. It is the gift of a true
and grateful spirit, and for itself--I never knew how beauteous these
things were. Nay, Stella,' speaking low, as he laid a hand on her arm,
and looked up into the sweet, thoughtful face, 'recollect that such are
in the walls of the City above, and yet they are but the same stuff as
earthly clay after all, showing us how dust can be sublimated. Look,
the mysterious glory of those diamond lights may help us to dwell on
the glories that eye hath not seen nor ear heard, and you know the
rainbow round about the Throne is in sight like unto an emerald.'
'You've consecrated them, brother,' she said, with a sweet smile on her
pensive face. 'When I think of that, it will keep them from being a
temptation.'
He played silently with the flashing gleams a little longer, as if
continuing the strain of thought, then said, 'Did you say he was here?'
'Yes; he only came back from Spain yesterday, and came down to bring
this, though he did not know _it_ was to be so soon.'
'Take your fairy bouquet, Princess Fair-Star, I'll come to him in a
minute.'
'O yes, brother! There's the carriage coming down the drive!' and the
voice was rather awe-struck.
'We will come too and help you through the introduction, little one,'
said Felix, 'though I think you have self-possession to meet it.'
The little bride sprang away, and while Felix was slowly lifting
himself up, he heard Alda murmur, 'Ferdinand Travis gave that! I wonder
how many hundreds it cost.'
Certainly it was a contrast to the pinching and anxiety she had
described. If she had but known, as Mrs. Underwood had said! Felix
paused in the doubt whether to take any notice of the predicament,
and said, 'He had gone to Barcelona, and I did not expect him to have
returned by this time.'
'He has purchased a welcome,' said Alda, but her face glowed, and at
the same moment the carriage crashed up to the door, containing the
Audley party, who had all arrived at the Captain's the day before,
except old Lady Margaret, who never left home.
'Thank you, Felix,' said Lady Vanderkist, as they repaired to the
drawing-room in readiness for the reception. 'You have done me good.'
He could not quite see how, but no doubt there had been much in his
look and manner of listening.
Sir Robert Audley was a pompous, formal old gentleman, tremendously
condescending and courtly, and his first bow, his first tone showed
Geraldine what a trial he must be to his sons--indeed the elder looked
more bored than she had ever seen him.
'And where is the sweet young lady I am so soon to hail as my
granddaughter?'
'Here she is, sir,' said Charlie, about to pull her forward, but she,
by some intuition, advanced with a beautiful courtesy, perfect in grace
but full of modesty and respect. Sir Robert was delighted, met her with
a gracious gesture and kiss, and presented her to his daughter-in-law,
Mrs. Somerville Audley--a dame stiff and fashionable-looking, and to
Miss Audley, small, dark, and reminding Cherry of the old word 'modish.'
Alda was a great help, and so were the wedding presents. Ferdinand
Travis had fled to Major Harewood's, but his bouquet evoked raptures
from the ladies, though Cherry doubted whether the baronet were equally
delighted that the Audley jewels he had produced for the bride of
the heir presumptive should be eclipsed, for he kept on impressing
on the young couple that these last were family relics, and must not
be exposed to any risk, until Stella was ready to suggest that it
would be wiser not to take them abroad, and was only withheld by the
fear of seeming to slight them. Her habitual silence and observation
had fostered a remarkable amount of simple tact, and this, together
with her unusual loveliness, rendered her a great success; but the
ceremonious speeches and grand politeness rendered the visit very
fatiguing, and when the settlements had been duly signed, and the other
high contracting power had bowed himself off, Felix looked so worn out
that every one acquiesced in his shutting himself into his study. No
one saw him again till the late dinner with which Sir Adrian must be
regaled.
It was strictly a family party, and only the Harewoods, Vanderkists,
and Mr. Travis, besides the whole eleven who still bore the name of
Underwood, were assembled in the drawing-room. Marilda was there,
hearty and good-natured as ever, but better looking at two-and-thirty
than at two-and-twenty, for she had somewhat fined down, and actual
work in business and charity had given meaning to her countenance, and
energy instead of temper to her manner. She was assiduously courting
little Gerald, and he backing out of her way into the more congenial
society of Mary and Sophy Vanderkist. Cherry could not help thinking it
an odd turn of the wheel of fortune that Alda should have so much nicer
and better-regulated children than Wilmet. To be sure, Christopher and
Edward were perfectly satisfactory to their parents, and obeyed them at
a word, but the licence they enjoyed was a continual contrast to the
strict rule Wilmet had maintained over her former charge, and did not
render them agreeable company to their uncles and aunts. Moreover, the
ruddy locks and freckles of the Harewoods had mastered the Underwood
blonde complexion, while the two Vanderkists reproduced the elder twins
at the same age, and were exemplary little maids, taught meekness by
difficulties and yielding by seniority, grateful for notice from their
uncles, and enchanted to find a boy so unlike their notions of the
species. On the other hand, Gerald watched them like fairies, laid
himself at their feet with precocious devotion, and mourned that he
could not marry them both on the spot.
The grown-up party looked each other over rather as they had done on
meeting fifteen years before at their mother's funeral--the years that
had made their baby the fair little bride who was nestling as close as
she could to her eldest brother that she might feel his hand on her
shoulder. Those years had brought the 'little ones' of those days to
be 'the tall ones' of the present, Bernard exceeding all the rest in
stature, even Fulbert and Clement, with regular features, brilliant
complexion, and glossy light-brown hair and moustache, but without
as yet any particular expression except good-humoured complacency in
his own appearance and deportment, being persuaded that Charlie would
have to-morrow a true _best_ man, unrivalled in looks and equipments;
and without a regret, save that Felix was courteously deaf to all Sir
Adrian's strictures on the scandalous state of his covers. Whatever
those years had done for Bernard's outer man, his mind, or perhaps more
properly his will, had not grown much older.
This could not be said of Angela, who sat so still and meek that Alda
was meditating on transferring the governess proposal to her, but
with a latent energy in the corner of the down-cast eye and firmly
closed mouth, and the most anxious watchfulness of Felix's slightest
movement. The change was comparatively small in sober Robina, whose
steady equable nature had been early moulded, and who sat at the window
curtain, with Will hovering over her, both trying not to contrast
other people's love affairs with their own. The three brothers whose
bickerings had then been so troublesome were now the most inseparable.
If their paths had severed them, they liked each other better now, as
they stood all in a row, with their backs against the mantel-piece, the
big, bearded, sunburnt Australian, the close-shaven, alert clergyman,
and the little bright-eyed, thin-faced, moustached tradesman, all
eagerly talking in under tones of old Bexley pranks and comrades,
laughing as they never did but in such a trio, and yet each bearing
tokens of toil with the full might of vigorous manhood, unlike as was
their work.
Geraldine's little bending figure had chiefly altered for the better.
The mixture of arch lively grace and pathetic depth which gave her
peculiar charm had increased rather than lessened, and though she had
gained in dignity and confidence, anxieties and perplexities made her
cheeks glow and her eyes wander restlessly as she tried to make talk
for Sir Adrian.
The twin sisters were together on the sofa, both in black velvet.
Wilmet had a bad cold, and indeed had never looked her best since the
shock at Whitsuntide, so that Alda had regained the palm of beauty;
but it was matronly content that had plumped the chiselled contour of
feature, and if the colouring showed less clear and flower-like, it was
by contrast with Alda's defined, over-transparent white and carnation,
and the wasted look that threw out the perfection of the delicate
moulding. One gave the notion of comfortable, peaceful motherliness,
the other of constant anxious wear and tear; and the blue eye, so much
larger and more hollow than the soft, calm one, rather weighed down by
the cold, no doubt were rendered additionally restless by the presence
of the man she had not seen since she had cast him off like a worn-out
glove.
It was she who had married, but upon which had the impression lasted
most painfully? There was a nervous quiver of her nostril, and a
sullen scowl in her husband's eye, when, after the casual greeting,
Ferdinand sat down among the children, took Gerald on his knee, and
made friends with the little girls. He was indisputably the wealthiest
man present, and the handsomest, except perhaps Bernard, whose good
looks were merely the fair, scarcely developed graces of early youth,
while his was the matured nobleness of countenance stamped on naturally
fine outlines by a life of brave, unselfish activity and dutifulness.
It was a calm, serious, dignified face, less melancholy than in his
younger days, for the liquid wistfulness of the dark eyes had given
place to vigilance and authority, and though there was still a want of
susceptibility and animation, the dark colouring and statuesque outline
did not need them.
'And he the chieftain of them all,' as Cherry liked to call her
Squire--he was leaning back in the easy-chair by the fire, with a
weary, placid smile on his face, and his fingers clasped lightly into
one another, as his elbows rested on the arms of his chair. There was a
strange monumental fixity of repose about him as if he were only half
attending to the talk that passed by him, and cared more to gaze than
to speak. However, on the announcement of dinner, he roused himself,
gave his arm to Lady Vanderkist, and talked cheerily to her through the
soup and fish, but while carving the turkey, he paused, a flush and
then a whiteness came over his face, and saying to Alda, 'I'm afraid I
must go, this is too much for me,' he rose, while Clement pushed back
his chair and hastily followed.
Startled looks went round, and--'A tiring day'--'He has not done
so much for a long time'--'That stuck-up old bore might _do_ for
anybody'--but in a few moments Clement came back, and said, while
taking the seat at the bottom of the table, 'He is better now,' then
tried to divert Alda's anxious inquiries whether using the arm had
renewed the strain. Geraldine put on a defiant brightness, appealing
to John whether Sir Robert were not enough to account for any fatigue,
and with questionable taste in her excitement, giving Sir Adrian a
sarcastic account of his compliments. Luckily, Stella was out of
hearing, but John detected the ring of anxiety in every ironical word.
Knowing that a crowd coming after him was always oppressive to Felix,
no one followed Wilmet when on leaving the drawing-room she went at
once to the study door. She found Felix on the Squire's chair in its
most couch-like form, looking even in the firelight exceedingly pale,
but greeting her with a smile of welcome.
'Yes, I am better,' he said, in answer to her enquiry. 'I'll come into
the drawing-room presently.'
'You had better not, you are overtired.'
'I like to look at them all,' was the answer.
They both sat silent awhile; there was something in the stillness that
forbade Wilmet even to feel in her pocket for her tatting; but at last
Felix surprised her by saying:
'I have been thinking about Jacob.'
'Jacob Lightfoot?'
'No, Israel. I think I enter a little into his surprise and gratitude.
I look back--don't you, Wilmet?--to a shivering sense of loneliness and
responsibility when we first realized the task before us.'
'I don't think I ever did,' said Wilmet; 'I never thought of mamma's
not getting well, till I had grown quite used to it. It never occurred
to me that our position was unusual till I heard people talking of it.'
'So much the better; but I recollect one cold winter day, soon after my
father's death, reading Jacob's vow at Bethel to devote his best, if
God would only give him bread to eat and raiment to wear, and longing
for some assurance that we should have it--I felt so helpless, and the
future so vague--and when I see how richly blessings and prosperity
have flowed in on us, and look at those fine, happy, strong creatures,
it seems to me like his return across the Jordan, or as if I could say,
as he did at last, "The God that led me all my life through, the Angel
that redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads."' And as the firelight
shone upon his face, Wilmet recollected another saying about Jacob, and
how the 'Angels of God met him,' but her answer sounded flat. 'Yes, it
is a great comfort to see so many launched and doing well.'
'And, Wilmet, how much was owing to you! If you had not been the girl
you were, we must have broken up; it could not have been done at all.
Do you remember our councils over that spotted account book on Saturday
nights, and our misery when Fulbert spoilt a new pair of boots in the
river?'
'And your new coats! They used to weigh on my mind for months. I used
to look at your elbows every evening, and reckon whether they would
hold out till I had saved enough for the next.'
'Ah!' added Felix, laughing a little, 'do you remember my worst offence
of all? No? My having my hair cut at Slater's--instead of letting you
do it. I believe you had designs on the shilling, and that you thought
me corrupted by the vanities of this world!'
'Yes, I was very hard and narrow then. John has shown it to me.'
'It could not be otherwise--you had to live in a continual state of
resistance.'
'But how many mistakes we made!'
'It is those very mistakes that make me so thankful; that they should
have been so many, and yet for the most part remedied, and that those
boys and girls should have come out so sound-hearted, right-minded,
and affectionate as all of them are, is to me as wonderful as it is
merciful.'
'They could not well help it. John says it shows the force of
example--that not one for whom you were responsible has gone wrong.'
'Of prayer--of being the children of the righteous, more likely,' said
Felix; 'and there _is_ a coming home, you know; I see the dawnings in
Alda, poor child, though there is much to smother it. I am happier
about her than ever before.'
'Poor Alda,' said Wilmet, 'I hope she will be happy in her children,
though I should not like mine to be so stiff and prim, poor little
dears!'
One by one Felix dwelt lovingly on the good points of each of the
brothers and sisters on whom he had been gazing--speaking with an
enjoyment that made Wilmet loth to leave him even for the sake of
making the most of her brief time with her twin sister. When at last
he recollected Alda and bade Wilmet return, blaming himself for
having detained her so long, he said as she rose, 'Give me one kiss
first, my Wilmet, for the sake of the old times when we worked and
struggled together, and I think we tasted of the special promise to the
fatherless.'
Wilmet, somewhat surprised, bent over him and gave the kiss. He held
her a moment, saying, 'May God bless you, and return it into your bosom
in your children.' The solemnity startled her, but the blessing was a
joy to her for the rest of her life.
The sound of music drew him back to the drawing-room ere long. Alda had
never heard Lance since his chorister's alto had passed from him, and
everyone, even Fulbert, called for some old echo of the old times over
the cracked piano. Sir Adrian had musical taste enough to be tamed and
kept amiable by the domestic concert; and even Angela did her part,
controlled by the resolution not to vex Felix. He indeed could take
no share, except that of evident delight, and now and then his low
voice chimed into one or other of his best loved choruses, but he told
Alda when she regretted the lack of his tones, 'Lance was better worth
hearing.'
'Let us have "Lead, kindly Light" again to-night, Clem,' said Felix, as
they moved towards the Oratory. 'Little Stella will not think it a sad
farewell.'
'No, indeed,' she said, holding his hand. 'I am sure we want the kindly
Light; going so far away, and so young!'
The hymn sounded even more sweetly than on the first arrival, so sweet
that Sir Adrian said to his wife, 'If all family prayers were like
that, they would not be such a bore.'
Wilmet went home by the bridge in the carriage, taking Marilda with
her, but Will and Ferdinand returned by boat. It was a splendid frosty
night, and Felix came out with them as far as the terrace. Lance, who
had gone down to the river, on returning found him still gazing at the
glories of the stars--Sirius flashing with most dazzling brightness,
and the Pleiades twinkling with their silvery mystery, and Aldebaran
gazing down like a great eye.
'Still out, Fee; don't get a chill.'
'Everything is so goodly--so good--without and within doors,' he
answered, 'that one hardly knows how to leave it. I wonder whether we
shall recognise what our foretastes have been!'
Lance recollected how strangely that word 'foretaste' had fallen on
his ear by Tranquillity Bridge as he sat in the solitude of his heavy
trance of disappointment; and as his brother's face came again into the
lights of the hall, something in it struck him with a sense that even
then he had been far from knowing what sorrow could be.
Of course the wedding morning was a scramble, though no one beyond the
family was invited, except that Dr. May brought his daughter Gertrude
to act as bridesmaid. Felix, who had since the hospital meeting ceased
to leave his room before breakfast, sent word that he should keep quiet
till Stella was dressed, and then that she would find him in the study.
How lovely the little white Star looked may be imagined. She was quite
calm and self-possessed, softly tender and loving, but too gravely
serious to be excited or agitated as she went, in deep, trustful love,
to meet the great unknown life, carrying about with her a certain hush
of sweet gentle awe.
So in her snowy robe and veil and wreathed brow, with her modest head
still bearing the long shining curls, she floated down the dark oak
stair, and crossed the hall, without casting a look on those who were
watching her, and knocked at the study door.
'Come in.' Felix rose to greet her, taking both her hands and kissing
her through her veil. 'My Star of the East, my happy gift!' he said.
'Stella, eighteen years ago father put you two freshly christened
babies into my arms. I gave dear little Theodore in his innocence back
to him last Whitsuntide. I am thankful to be allowed to give you in
your bridal white to the home that is to cherish you for the better
Home.'
She looked up in his face, which a flush of rosy colour was restoring
to something of its old self. 'Oh! brother,' she said, 'I am so glad
you spoke of dear Theodore. Charlie says we may take him my flowers as
soon as it is over. I wonder if he knows.'
'It may be, better than if he were here,' said Felix. 'Then it would
have been a sad day for him.'
'I could not have done it,' said Stella, and lowering her voice, 'I
don't know how I can have done it now. Oh, brother, nothing ever can be
like you!'
'It is one of my great comforts that you have done it, my Star, my own
especial child. I am glad you are the one I give away. Are they all
ready?'
'I think so.' And just then Geraldine knocked to intimate that the
Audley party were known to be arrived at the church, and that the
clergy and choir were ready. So Stella took the arm, not clinging, lest
she should hurt him, but lightly resting her fingers on it, and they
came forth, he with that youthful flush of colour on his cheek, with
all his scrupulous grace of attire, and with a white camellia in his
coat, but with that far-away look in his eyes; and she with bent head,
and deep concentrated spirit, never lifting her eyes from the ground.
The bridesmaids fell in behind, first the three small nieces, Mary
Harewood trotting between the other two, then the two sisters--Robina
in her sedate reserve, and Angela, flushing, quivering and trembling,
and never taking her eyes from Felix; and next the ill-matched pair
Gertrude May and Margaret Audley, the former thrilling at the smile
and clasp of the hand she had exchanged with Felix, the latter's
little black eyes taking note of everything not accordant with Audley
conventionalities.
Then came the rest in due order, Geraldine upon Ferdinand's arm, glad
it was so strong and friendly; for this, the first home wedding, made
her shiver with nervous excitement.
The elder Charles Audley, who had assisted in the twins' baptism by
their dying father, and had stood as their sponsor, was standing robed
at the inner archway of the tower, with Clement and William on either
side, while behind were the choir, Lance leading them.
Of course the whole parish was in the seats, Miss Isabella herself,
unable to help feeling that the marriage was infinitely more solemn,
and full of real praise and prayer, than those whose 'simplicity' she
had been wont to uphold.
No one ever forgot the quietly loving gesture with which the fatherly
brother put his fair young sister into the hands of the Church to be
'given to this man,' and the movement after the trothplight up to the
festally decked chancel was an exceedingly beautiful sight in itself.
Mr. Audley took the licence of giving a short but beautiful address of
his own on the significance and glory of holy wedlock, and then the
union was crowned and sealed by the hallowed Feast; for it had not been
thought fit to hurry it over out of sight beforehand, out of deference
to the two baronets, who, like the children and idler gazers, left the
church, and loitered outside, observing that 'this was too strong.'
After this, the signatures were to be made in the north transept that
served as vestry, and it was while the movement in consequence was
going on that Bernard felt a convulsive grasp on his arm, and the
whispered words, 'Help me home,' were so full of suffering that he
was not surprised to see his eldest brother's face deadly pale, and
contracted by pain.
Ere they had moved five steps, Fulbert too was supporting Felix, and
not without need, and Dr. May and Wilmet were following.
Consternation communicated itself to those around the little table.
'Felix ill!' The last Underwood that Stella Eudora ever signed herself
showed her start of dismay, and Clement, who was presiding over the
register book, turned pale, and gave a groan.
'God in His mercy help us! It is come!'
'I knew! I knew,' cried Angela--darting away.
'You apprehended'--began the amazed bridegroom.
'He was in some pain in the early part of the night, but slept towards
morning, and was resolved to go through with it. Stay--you must write
here while we know what we are about; this can't be left half done.'
The blow was known to all that sad wedding party as, instead of making
a joyous procession to the great door, they found their way through
the cloister to the house. The crisis that Felix had been led to
expect would steal on him by slow degrees, and with full warning, had
come suddenly on, accompanied with acute inflammation, producing pain
so terrible to witness that the great strong Fulbert came downstairs
sobbing like a child at the sight, and Geraldine was taken by both
hands by Bernard and dragged away to the painting-room, with almost
angry orders not to come near that door. The poor boy held her tight
by her wrists, as if he feared she would disobey, reiterating, 'He
said--he said you mustn't come.' Fain would John Harewood have used
equally decisive measures with his wife; but neither he nor Dr. May
could prevail on her to relinquish her place as foremost in the
attempts at alleviation.
No one could be allowed to come even to the door who had not nerve to
endure the sight of severer anguish than most of them had ever deemed
possible. Clement and Angela were doing their utmost under Dr. May's
directions, but Mr. Audley found himself less needed there than by
poor Cherry, whom he let loose from Bernard's grip, and after sending
the boy for a cordial for her, gave them both a clearer explanation of
the state of the case than they had yet understood. At first she felt
it hard to have been in ignorance all this time, but when Mr. Audley
had helped them both to pray, she fastened upon the hope that the very
suddenness and violence of the attack proved that the evil would the
sooner be over and leave no ill effect.
A report was circulated that Dr. May had given some such hope, and
therewith that there was some respite in the paroxysms of suffering.
There was a little movement among the crushed and dismayed party who
had at first straggled up to the hall and drawing-room, and sat, or
stood about, as if a thunderbolt had descended among them.
Alda was the first to make any sort of move, impelled by the fear of
her husband's impatience, and recollecting the guests. Sir Robert
and his daughter-in-law were stiff and uncomfortable, wondering that
things should have been allowed to go so far, and wishing themselves
away. Alda looked about for her sisters, but could only find Robina,
who assisted in proposing that the strangers should come and eat. Sir
Robert, on this, uttered polite condolences, begging that his carriage
might be sent for, but consenting to come into the dining-room.
Where were the bridal pair? Poor young things, they were found in one
of the hall window seats, where they could catch sounds from the sick
room, all crushed up together, his arms round her, and her head, with
wreath and veil pushed aside, on his shoulder, as if she were passively
submitting to such support as he strove to afford.
'My dear children,' began Sir Robert, as they stood up startled, 'it
is indeed a mournful turn that this festive occasion has taken, but
I am relieved to hear that the patient is somewhat relieved, and you
will, as Lady Vanderkist suggests, assume your places at the table. Or
perhaps our bride will first change her dress, as it may be better to
hasten your departure.'
'I can't go away.'
But Sir Robert with his conventionalities, Mrs. Audley with her
proprieties, nay the Captain with his morbid horror of everything
painful, all came round, declaring that Charlie was bound to take
his bride away; they need not go far; they might wait where their
rooms were engaged, but go they must; and appeals were made to both
Vanderkists on the necessity.
There however quiet, gentle Stella became wild, nay almost frantic. She
broke away from her husband, whose 'You shall do exactly as you please'
was drowned in the authoritative commands of his grandfather. 'No!
No!' she cried,' I will not go! No one can take me, while my brother
is so ill,' and she burst into an irrepressible passion of weeping,
leaning against the tall post of balusters, and pushing Charlie away
when he would have taken her hand. 'No, no, don't, I don't want any
one. I won't go away from my brother,' and she flung her arm round the
post as if she fancied she would be forcibly dragged away, and not so
much as hearing, 'This is very amiable feeling,' from Sir Robert, or
if she did, it distracted her the more, while Charlie stood in utter
perplexity, for it was of no use to protest that he did not mean to
take her away, when it only on the one side made his grandfather order
him the more decidedly, and Stella cling the more desperately whenever
he tried to approach, scarcely restraining her screams as her agitation
became uncontrollable. 'No, no, let me alone, trouble only comes with
me--I want no one but my brother!'
A step on the stairs startled her into breathless silence. It was
Clement. 'Hush, Stella,' he said, sternly and shortly. 'Felix wants you
and Charlie.'
'He heard,' some one said reproachfully.
'Yes. Don't detain her,' he added, as Alda would have modified her
dishevelment by removing the wreath and veil. 'I don't know how long
this interval may last.'
Stella, instantly controlled by the home voice, and ashamed and grieved
at having disturbed her brother, made no resistance to Charlie's taking
her trembling hand as Clement preceded them to the room, all silent
now save for the constrained breathing which showed the interval to be
far from painless. The ashy face of suppressed suffering recalled to
Stella her watch by that same spot during the suspense about Theodore,
and she dropped on her knees, trying to hide her tears and stifle her
sobs in the bed-clothes. Felix after laying his hand on the poor little
head held it out to Charlie, and evidently commanding his voice with
great difficulty said, 'I did not think _this_ would have come till you
had her safe away, Charlie.'
'I am very sorry,' was all the poor bridegroom could say.
'I am very sorry,' repeated Felix, his hand resting on her hair again,
'but as it can't be helped, I think it will come harder to her if she
is taken away just now. This can't go on long as it is now. Ask Dr.
May. And when you see--'
He paused from inability to achieve a steady tone, and Charlie
answered, 'I never meant to go. I'll stay till you are better, as long
as ever she likes, indeed I will, my sweet--' but again she seemed to
shiver away from him with a sort of repugnance, which Felix perceived.
More faintly he said, 'You'll be his happy gift, my child, I'm so glad
to leave you to--Oh! go now!'
The fingers grew rigid and seemed to push her away. Wilmet half lifted,
half thrust her into Charlie's arms. He almost carried her, pressing
her face against him that she might not catch a glimpse of those
spasms and uncontrollable writhings of anguish that were returning.
The door was shut, and the young creatures cowered in the gallery in
one another's arms, catching the sad sounds that neither patience nor
resolute will could prevent. Stella slid down on her knees, and Charlie
was fain to do the same, thankful that she let him hold her in his arm
instead of repelling him.
'There! it is all quiet. He must be better again,' he whispered
after a time, and this was confirmed by Angela coming to send out
a prescription of the doctor's. The chill look of her white dress
suggested to Charlie to say, 'You will be as cold as ice in that
whiteness, my Star. Suppose you took it off, while I go and tell Sir
Robert that nothing shall move us till he is all right again. You
couldn't think me such a brute.'
Poor little Stella held up her tear-stained face for a kiss with a
vague sense of having been naughty and wanting forgiveness.
'You'll come back to me when you have dressed! I'll come and wait up
here again.'
'Do. I'll be quick. They can't send us away, can they?'
'I'll see them shot first,' then repenting the schoolboy defiance of
the words: 'No, Stella, I'm your husband, you know, and can guard you.
I had no intention of going, not a bit. Only they can't see when one is
a man, and they frightened you with the noise, poor little thing! If I
tell them _he_ wishes it, no one can say a word. Don't be long.'
He nearly walked over a pair sitting on the stairs, too dejected to
heed anything, namely, Lance and Gertrude, drawn together by the fellow
feeling of being both too unhappy to speak or be spoken to, yet finding
a sort of companionship in wretchedness as they listened and caught
fragmentary tidings from above.
Charlie showed his manhood in quiet self-assertion. He told his
grandfather that it would not be right to take his wife away, and that
her brother wished them to stay; and though this was viewed as very
ill-judged, there was no gainsaying it, especially as his uncle had
come down decidedly of the same opinion.
Geraldine had likewise descended. The sanguine view she had contrived
to take up had given her strength to take up her necessary part as
mistress of the house making farewells and excuses. Marilda had, she
found, swept off all the children to the Harewoods' house, including
Gerald, who had allowed Ferdinand to carry him away, and in the present
state of things she could only be thankful he was beyond hearing and
questioning.
As the hours passed, and winter twilight gave way to early night, there
was something of a lull. The alleviations had not been entirely without
effect, and Dr. May felt obliged to go home, promising that he or his
son, or both, would come early on the morrow. When Felix understood
this, he asked whether Gertrude were still in the house, and hearing
that she was, begged for her presence for a moment.
'Most certainly,' said her father. 'Where is she?'
'She has been sitting on the stairs all day with Lance,' Angela
answered.
'With Lance?' Felix nearly smiled.
Dark as were the stairs, there they still were. Lance had executed
numerous errands, and had made Gertrude swallow some tea, but they had
not spoken ten words to one another. There Dr. May found his daughter,
and, with a word or two of warning and preparation, led her in. She
could not see much, for the light was shielded from the face, and only
threw up the shadow of the cross and the angel's hovering wings on the
ceiling above. The hand that lay on the sheet, curved, but not with
repose, closed on hers with a '_krampfhaft_' pressure. 'You have been
comforting Lance,' said Felix. 'Thank you.'
'I couldn't,' she faltered, more overcome by voice than look, it was so
thin and weak.
'You prayed! You will pray! "Each on his cross still let us hang
awhile." Pray that I may not let go. "Suffer us not at our last hour,"'
his lips moved on--'Pray that for me.'
'Indeed! indeed I will!'
'Thank you; it will be your greatest kindness. And one day remember
that wish--that one wish. I wanted to wish you good-bye. God bless you.
Kiss me once, my _sister_ Gertrude.'
She could not have staid a moment longer than to give and receive that
kiss. She almost fled into the room where her wraps were, and there
cried as if her heart would break, feeling scarcely able to bear it
when Robina came to see whether she had warm things enough.
But Gertrude had a twelve miles' drive with her father, and in it
she experienced as never before, the depths of his tenderness and
delicacy of his sympathy, and he found what were his once wilful petted
child's yearnings towards that lofty noble character just out of
reach, yearnings by his own forbearance just not stirred into active
conscious love, such as would have left her heart entirely widowed. For
in reply to the questions she scarce durst utter, the Doctor declared
plainly that his own hope was small, though there still remained the
possibility of a turn for the better, and Tom's more modern science
might have further resources.
This was what he had left with the family, and most of them turned 'not
hopeless' into hopeful, more especially as the most distressing form of
suffering had not recurred, though even now Felix begged that Cherry
might not see him, and feebly tried to send Wilmet home, but nothing
would induce her to leave him. Her whole self seemed bound up in the
single thought of ministering to him, and she was almost incapable of
attending to remonstrance from husband or doctor on the special risks
in her case, as if her strong will had mastered her very understanding,
and they feared that to insist might do her more harm than to let her
have her way. Clement kept equally close at hand, resolved that she
should never be alone with the patient to bear the first brunt of those
appalling attacks of suffering, and Angela was never further off than
the next room, with the door open.
Those downstairs achieved a conventional cheerfulness. Stella was there
in her ordinary black dress, and it was not easy to realize that she
was Mrs. Audley, while Charley hung over her, petting her, though very
anxious to be useful.
The chief use to which Geraldine wanted to put him or any one else,
was to entertain Adrian, who looked as if he thought the illness of
the master of the house a special injury and act of inhospitality to
himself, and was, besides, much disposed to be rude to Ferdinand.
'Can't you take him into the long room and play billiards?' she asked
Bernard.
'You'd hear the balls up in Felix's room. I never saw such a selfish
brute.'
Bernard had found his Helot at last. 'Best way would be to get Fulbert
to take him somewhere to smoke. I don't suppose he'll go for me.'
The somewhere was Sibby's sitting-room, and when Sir Adrian was carried
off, Alda, Geraldine, Ferdinand, and Marilda had rather a comfortable
talk over old St Oswald's Buildings days, in which Mr. Audley presently
joined them.
The calm lasted, so that every one except the three actual nurses
went to bed peacefully; but before the morning broke there was worse
distress than ever. The worst attacks there had been at all set in,
lasting longer, and with far less power of mitigation from the remedial
measures, which seemed to be losing more effect every time, till the
watchers scarcely durst wish to see the sufferer begin to revive only
to undergo fresh torture.
That terrible morning broke Wilmet down. She had gone through all with
unremitting energy and unflinching courage, but when Professor May had
arrived, and brought some new anæsthetic, so that there was some relief
and the strain slackened, she just crept into the next room with
Angela and fainted away, only reviving to swoon again as soon as she
tried to move.
The doctors were unanimous in sending her away, even while scarcely
yet conscious, to her own house, and she was too faint to make any
resistance or remonstrance. About an hour later, Ferdinand and Marilda,
who were waiting in the billiard-room for the report of Professor May's
opinion, were auditors of the following conversation, evidently the end
of something that had been going on all the way from Major Harewood's
house:
'Adrian! it is absolute cruelty! Why cannot you go alone, and send home
the children?'
'Oh I daresay, and leave you to sentiment with that nigger fellow.'
'You need not have insulted me;' and her silk rustled upstairs, his
steps following.
Marilda's eyes flashed and gave utterance to a fierce whisper. 'The
cowardly ruffian! Can't you horsewhip him?' clenching her fist as she
spoke.
But Ferdinand's dark face had indeed reddened, and his nostrils
quivered, though not at the personal offence, as he muttered under his
breath: 'To shoot him were the only cure for her! God forgive me for
the thought, but to think of any woman in such hands, and to be the
person most entirely unable to defend her!'
'I forgot! Of course you could only make it worse, but poor dear
Alda!--It drives one out of one's senses;' and tears of anger were in
her eyes.
'It stirs the devil within, and makes me wish I had never forgiven
him,' said Ferdinand between his teeth.
'You need not forgive him this! _I_ don't.'
After a few moments' pause Fernan said, 'The only service I can do her
is to go away. Would that make him consent to her remaining?'
'Oh! we can't spare you. What shall I do with Gerald without you or
Mary Vanderkist? He is always whining for Cherry!'
'Of course I can't bear to be away, but if I excite this idiotical
jealousy, what can I do but take myself off? I'll go to London, and you
can telegraph every hour. Go up and tell Alda--Lady Vanderkist, I mean.
Casually ask what I can do for her.'
'That would stir him up again. And I don't think it would be of any
use. He doesn't want to stay here, and means spite.'
'Then she could insist on staying.'
'She would be afraid. You see when people have used one another as they
used you, it can't help rankling.'
'I ought not to have come here, but of course I thought the whole thing
as utterly gone by with them as with myself.'
Marilda looked up with a curious expression of blushing gladness that
made him exclaim,' How like you are to what you were when first I saw
you!'
She blushed still more.
'That time!' he said, musing. 'Did you ever think I used you wrongly?'
he suddenly added.
'_I_ never did. I knew the difference between myself and Alda.'
'Nay, let me tell you, I never should have seen how beautiful she was,
unless--I suppose it wasn't true, now--'
'What wasn't true?'
'That you and Felix--'
'Felix! No indeed! He is far too independent and disinterested. Who
could have told you? You won't say? Not Edgar?'
'No. It was that poor lady herself.'
'Well,' said Marilda, infinitely shocked, 'I do call that wicked!' and
as her mind glanced back to all the pain of those two years, she added,
'What did she say? Don't mind telling me. I'm old enough now.'
'Are you?' he said, with a quick glance of his dark eyes that made her
glow again, and he continued: 'She gave me to understand that there was
an old inclination between you and him, and that your father had such
a regard for him as to be likely to yield if nothing more advantageous
came in his way.'
'If you had only asked poor Edgar! Well! perhaps she flattered herself
it was so! Yet, what could have put it into her head.'
'You know the rest, and how I was dazzled both by her beauty and the
charm of her connection, but for years past the sense of my huge
mistake has been upon me; yet till Felix came into possession here, I
still thought it was his punctilious feeling alone that kept you apart.'
'As if he had ever cared for me except in a cousinly, brotherly sort of
way! Did you think that was what made me hush up poor Edgar's affair,
though indeed I never felt so thankful to any one as to you for having
saved that secret.'
'Do you know what your generosity made me wish, though I never durst
speak it before? That you would forget all these mistakes and forgive
me, and come back to what things were before that misunderstanding.'
'Oh!' cried Marilda, with a long breath, 'you can't really mean it.'
'What else should I mean? If you will only forgive and overlook.'
'Don't talk in that way,' cried Marilda. 'Why I never cared for anyone
else, and always have--but'--breaking off in the midst--'hark, there
are wheels. That poor thing will be gone.'
'You had better go up and tell her.'
'Not _this_--I can't. It would only make him more savage; besides at
such a time.'
'True. No--only let them know I'll go. I'm gone. No, I can't leave the
place till I've heard his opinion--but I'll go over to Ewmouth. I'll
see you again and settle--only don't let her be dragged away.'
Marilda was obliged to go up, with the vaguest ideas as to what to
say, in a case that even she felt to be delicate, but on coming to the
scene of action, she found that the words she had overheard amounted
to no more than an ebullition of temper. Sir Adrian did not wish to
leave behind him a character for brutality, and since he could plead
an appointment and escape from the house of mourning, he could endure
leaving his wife to it; and an excuse for yielding was afforded by the
maid who, coming up with the two little girls, brought word that Mrs.
Harewood was asking for my Lady.
So Mary and Sophy were sent back to Ironbeam, their father went to meet
his pheasants, and their mother hurried back to her twin, all that
old tenderness reviving instinctively so as to render the sisterly
contact the greatest comfort then possible to either. Ferdinand had
taken care to inform the departing Sir Adrian that he was about to
leave Vale Leston, and was in fact only waiting for the opinion of the
London doctor who had seen Felix before, and for whom, with Tom May's
sanction, he had telegraphed.
Gratitude to him for having devised this, and trust to further advice
buoyed Cherry up, as she watched in the painting-room, giving orders,
answering inquiries, and never swerving from hope and that intense
prayer for her brother's restoration, which no one could discourage,
nor even qualify in vehemence. Why should not a life so valuable be
given back to her entreaties and those of many another suppliant? Yet
Mr. Audley, going backwards and forwards between her and the patient,
could not but be struck by observing that Felix himself rather allowed
than demanded the supplications for recovery, and though extremity of
pain often wrung from him cries for relief and sobs for mercy, yet
in the calmer periods these became sighs for the power of enduring
his cross better, and of not loosening his hold on his Saviour, and
sometimes even the moan had more of praise than of plaint. He was still
quite sensible, but the intervals between the paroxysms were so far
from painless that he never showed any wish to see or speak to any but
those immediately about him, namely, Clement and Angela, with Lance and
Robina as supplementary helpers, and Mr. Audley, when he could bear it.
Tom May waited all day, doing his best till his London friend came, and
could do nothing but confirm his treatment, and agree that the shadow
of hope was not yet absolutely impossible, though human means were
unavailing. However, between exhaustion and a fresh form of anodyne, a
sort of stupor was induced towards the evening, and this was again a
relief, at least to those who durst call it sleep.
Ferdinand profited by it to tear himself away according to his promise,
and Marilda betook herself and her much aggrieved maid to the Rood,
carrying the children with her, to spend the day, though there was
no room to lodge them at night; poor Gerald submitting passively, as
the fresh misfortune of losing both Fernan and Mary Vanderkist fell
on him. Marilda's quarters were left to Sister Constance, who arrived
at the appointed time, to find herself less needed at the Priory than
the cottage, where the greeting she received from the sorrowful and
anxious Lady Vanderkist was no small contrast to the manner in which
Alda Underwood had requited her services.
The beneficent torpor lasted far into the night, and in some way or
other all, save Clement and Angela, consented to take a certain amount
of rest. Even Angela, though refusing to lie down, must have dozed in
her chair by the fire, for as her perception gradually returned to her,
she heard broken tones from Felix, and saw Clement standing over him.
The first words that fully met her ear were the conclusion of what had
gone before. 'There! stained, weak, failing, erring, more than I can
say--more than I can recollect--I can only trust all to the washing in
my Saviour's precious blood. Let me hear His message.'
The deep, thankful intensity of the gaze, looking far beyond Clement
standing over him and pronouncing the Absolution, impressed Angela with
strange awe.
Full of the past, all shuddering twilight,
Man waits his hour with upward eye,
The golden keys in love are brought,
That he may hold by them and die.
It was a face of love, eagerness, absorption, that no one could ever
forget, as the voice of pardon was listened to with folded hands.
She dared not move till there was again need of her assistance. When
she could utter a word to Clement, it was: 'Is not he better?' but
Clement shook his head. Still the last doctor's advice had enabled the
worst part of the suffering to be so far kept in abeyance, that before
that morning's dawn the Feast could be held in the sick chamber, among
those whom Clement ventured to call together for it. The greater calm
much encouraged Cherry, and she went away cheered by the face that
could still give her a smile, declaring that Felix did not look worse
than when he was bloodless after the accident.
Both she and Bernard hugged their hope. Even when, before the day was
out, all the family knew of Tom May's verdict that those symptoms had
set in which extinguished all chance of recovery without a miracle;
still those two upheld one another in shutting their eyes to the
inference, and continued to rejoice in the comparative relief from the
heartrending spasms of the previous days, while others knew but too
well that this was only the token that the struggle of the constitution
was over.
Other forms of suffering had set in, but attention was sometimes
free. Ferdinand and Marilda, though ashamed of having fallen into
their engagement at such a time, could not help believing that to him
at least it would give pleasure, and it had been breathed into Mr.
Audley's ear. In one of these pauses of tranquillity Felix was told of
it, and said with a smile, 'That is well. God is giving me every wish
of my heart--"Grant thee thy heart's desire--"'
For his words had a tendency to flow into psalms and prayers, which
the others took up and finished; but he was generally quite sensible,
though sometimes restless and sometimes torpid. He asked for Wilmet,
and hearing she had gone home, and that Alda was with her, seemed
satisfied. He murmured something about Sir Adrian, and on learning
his departure, said, 'I meant to have spoken to him--I don't suppose
I could--some one tell him--he must be kind to Alda and the little
ones--poor Alda!'
The day passed in this manner, and when at its close the familiar
sounds indicated shutting up for the night, he showed an expectation of
good nights. Geraldine came, and was charmed with the calmed, soothed
countenance; she kissed him and told him he was better, and would
sleep. He answered, 'Thank God, yes; thank God for you, my Chérie.'
Clement was afraid to let her agitate herself or him, and led her away
to her own door, appealing to him all the way whether the worst were
not over. He trusted that it was.
To Stella Felix gave only a blessing and good-night, but he thanked
Charlie again for letting her remain, and to Bernard he said what the
lad at the moment thought wandering, 'You'll swim for yourself now your
plank is gone.'
There were no such positive farewells to those immediately about him.
He depended most for aid both bodily and spiritual on Clement, but he
took the most notice of Angela, often thanking her, with some tender
name, even while he seemed continually drifting further and further out
of reach.
Life is strongly bound into a frame scarcely at the midway of age,
and the change came so slowly that Cherry had begun to say that when
the Epiphany was past, the day of his father's death, she was sure
the corner would be turned. He was very weak, but he had been as weak
before.
Weak? Yes. The mind was failing now, not the soul. The ears still
opened to prayer, the lips joined in it, the speech was of another
world. "The hours of the cross--when will it be over?" Or the
wedding might guide the thought to "the Bride prepared." "The white
array"--"the diamonds--the jewels He will make up--the emerald rainbow
round about the Throne."
Falterings very feeble ensued, as if he were talking to his father:
'Indeed I tried. I think they are all coming. Father, may I come now?
Isn't it done?'
That was the last word they caught distinctly, except fragments of
prayer, before the long hour when he lay on Clement's breast, each
long labouring breath heaving up as though the last. Lance had fetched
Cherry, telling her Felix was going. He had had to change the word to
dying, actually dying, before she could understand its force. Then she
stood, gripping his arm, at the foot of the bed, while nothing was
heard but those gasps, and the continued prayer of Mr. Audley, until
the moment came when he bade the Christian soul depart into the hands
of the Father of Spirits.
That was just as the winter night was darkening on the Saturday
evening.