SHATTERED PILLARS.
'The heart which like a staff was one,
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day,
With steadfast love, is caught away,
And yet my days go on, go on.'
_E. Barrett Browning._
In the darkness before the winter dawn, William slowly put the little
skiff across the river, and went up to the Priory, where only one
or two upper windows showed a pale light behind the blinds. All was
intensely still, as the garden-door yielded to his hand, and he crossed
the dark hall, then mounted the stairs, which creaked under his tread,
and, pausing in the gallery, seemed drawn irresistibly to the door of
the room which had been the centre of all their thoughts and cares.
His cautious touch of the lock was responded to from within. There was
enough light in the room to show the carved Angel, and beneath it the
silent face that seemed to be watching in hope for the trumpet.
Not much less white and set was Clement's face as, laying a cold set
of fingers on William's arm, he drew him into his own room where they
stood for some minutes, neither knowing how to speak, till the church
clock striking broke the silence, and Will said:
'Clement, I have taken upon me to silence the knell--on Wilmet's
account. John would not let you hear how alarmed we were last night,
thinking you had gone through enough, but they say such a shock as
that bell would be, might do all the harm imaginable. Sister Constance
thinks she will pull through, but she has been fancying Felix was
calling her, and poor John was quite overpowered.'
'Our other pillar!' said Clement, dreamily.
'She is better,' repeated Will. 'Sister Constance would not let her
give way--told her not to fancy. She only wanted to prevent that sound.'
'Right,' murmured Clement in the same tone.
'And I will take the service.'
'Thank you, I am coming, but I don't know whether I have voice.'
'You ought to be in bed. Have you had any sleep?' For Clement had never
attempted to rest from that Wednesday morning to Saturday night.
'I don't know,' he answered, passing his hand over his face. 'I've
been a great many hours in bed, but there's no getting away from the
sense for a moment,' said he, thawing under Will's sympathy, shown
more in gesture than word. 'I don't seem able to care at this moment
even for poor Wilmet and John. Everything seems swallowed up in this
one. I've known these six months it was coming, and discussed it with
himself, yet it comes to me as stupendous and appalling as if I had
never thought of it before. The one that there was no doing, no living
without! There seems no standing up against it.'
'You have stood more bravely than any, and you will.'
'I _must_,' said Clement. 'Of course it is faithless selfishness, and
one cannot but rejoice that all that torture is over, and rest begun,
but consternation and helplessness will come foremost, without him,
brother, father, everything for all these eighteen years. Poor Cherry!
what is to become of her!'
'How is she?'
'There it is! I don't know. I staid to help Sibby, and by that time I
was so done up, that it seems a perfect blank. I must have frightened
Sibby, for I remember her scared eyes, and then I fancy Fulbert and
Lance were dosing me with soup, or wine, or something, and I went to
bed; but what they said about any one, I can't recollect. I'll ask
Lance.'
Lance sat up in bed, after a sleep he had fallen into towards the
morning. Poor Cherry! he said, he had led her back to her room
perfectly passive, and put her in her chair, but she seemed turned to
stone. Mr. Audley had come and taken her hand, but it lay passively;
she did not seem to hear his words, and her eyes had a stony mechanical
glare like paralysis. The suddenness was practically as great to her as
if Felix had been drowned at once. Mr. Audley had advised them to give
her time to recover from her stunned condition, and she had been left
to Stella, who had last reported that her stupefaction had passed into
heavy slumber as soon as her head was on the pillow.
Robina had been entirely taken up with Angela, whose fatigue was almost
as great as Clement's, and who had besides caught a bad cold and
toothache on the wedding-day. Her prostration had taken the form of
violent weeping, which Lance had heard half the night, and now, though
all was quiet, the brothers durst not run the risk of waking her.
Indeed, when Mr. Page looked in with a somewhat more cheery account of
Mrs. Harewood, he advised that no attempt should be made to disturb
either sister, but that, in especial, Geraldine's room should be
darkened, and she should be allowed to lie and doze, without being
roused, under peril of mischief to brain or nerves.
As to Angela, she awoke soon enough, and then nothing would keep her
from getting up and wandering about in restless misery and much bodily
discomfort, almost engrossing Robina, while Stella guarded Cherry.
Very thankful were all for the presence and aid of that little bride,
whose names, the gift of her dying father, had never fitted her better,
for she was the household star, the happy gift through those mournful
hours. The loss to her was as of a parent, and no father could have
been more beloved than her "Brother," but the change in her life had
made it just not the utter desolation it was to the home sisters, and
the strength of the new bond, and the soothing bliss of her husband's
caresses, lifted her up enough to make her sympathy a support. She had
never been a childish girl, and the last remnant of childishness seemed
to have passed away in that struggle on the stairs. Her brightness had
always been pensive and subdued, and in the time of distress there was
a kind of lamp-light lustre in her looks, words, and ways that relieved
dejection wherever she went, while either her powers were greatly
developed or only had full scope when she and Robina had to share all
the feminine cares of the stricken family.
That leaden state of Geraldine's continued the next morning, though
she rang her bell mechanically for Sibby at her usual hour, came down,
poured out breakfast, and ordered dinner as usual, then returned to
her painting-room. If addressed, she gave a vacant look and a brief
matter-of-fact reply, and volunteered nothing, nor attempted any
employment. She seemed neither to care nor comprehend when told that
Wilmet had had a quiet night, sat mazed and unhearing when Clement
read, Angela roamed in and out like an unquiet spirit, as her brothers
and sisters consulted in her presence, all feeling what it was to see
her for the first time devoid of her own peculiar comforter.
Stella watched over her incessantly, and sat writing letters in the
painting-room. Poor little bride--what letters they were to bear the
date of her eighteenth birthday and her first Stella Eudora Audley's!
About one o'clock, however, there was a shuffling sound of feet, a
rattling of the lock, and little Gerald came breathlessly stumbling
into the room, and in a moment was clasping his arms round Geraldine,
'Chérie, Chérie! you aren't gone too. Keep me, keep me!'
'My Gerald, my boy, my own!' He was on her lap, in her arms, and they
were kissing each other with passionate fervour. 'Oh! Chérie, my back
does ache so. I came all the way and up the stairs. Oh! my back.'
'My dear little man! There,' and Stella helped to place him on his
couch, where she hung over him, the dumb spell broken by force of the
little hands that clutched her fast.
'Don't let them have me again.'
'No, no, never, never,' cried Cherry, 'you are mine! my own all that is
dearest, my boy, his boy.'
'Oh! please don't cry, Chérie, please,' and he stroked her face, while
Stella was only too glad to see the tears. 'My back is better now, and
I don't care, if you won't go away like my Daddy.'
'Not now, my child, don't be afraid.'
Then in an undertone 'Is _he?_' and at her look and gesture, he again
clung to her, burying his face on her neck, 'O Chérie, Chérie, why do
people die? I wish it had been Kester.'
'O hush, Gerry,' and just then manly steps came along the gallery,
causing the child almost to choke her in his grasp, as trembling all
over, he implored her not to let him be taken away.
'Is Gerald here?' asked Clement, opening the door, 'ah! yes, John, here
he is!'
'No, no one is going to take you! Oh! Clem! John, is this a fit! my
darling! Speak to him.'
'My dear,' said John, 'no one wants to take you away, I am only
thankful you are here! Don't be afraid.'
The grasp, which had for a moment had something convulsive in it,
slackened, but the poor child panted out 'Hold me! hold me, don't let
me go.'
'No indeed, Gerald,' said Clement in his sweet voice, as he smoothed
the tumbled hair, and as the boy did not recoil, took him on his strong
arm and knee, 'no one can take you from us. You are our child, Chérie's
and mine, the treasure trusted to us.'
Cherry looked up to her brother with an exquisite pathos of gratitude,
and the child lay back, long shudderings still heaving up through his
little frame, and drawing deep sobbing breaths, but his brown eyes
showing his exceeding repose and confidence in his tall uncle's arms,
and with Chérie's hand in his.
'I am most glad to have found him here,' said Major Harewood. 'Gerald,
dear boy, I fear you have been very miserable. Marilda undertook the
care of the children at the Rood, but she could not get on with them.
Was that why you came home, Gerald?'
'It was all so horrible when Mary and Sophy were gone,' said Gerald.
'I am afraid Kester and Edward have been very naughty,' said John.
'Gerald, what have they been doing to you?'
The child hid his face on his uncle's breast. Timid and nervous as
he was, he was precocious enough to be too honourable for personal
accusations, and Major Harewood respected him. 'No, my dear, I will not
vex you with questions. I am exceedingly grieved at the treatment you
have had in my house. I must go, for there is much alarm.'
'Not Wilmet?'
'O no, poor dear, she takes their voices for those of her own little
brothers, and asks them not to wake your father. Alda seems to have
carried her back to her old days, but she is really better this morning
and quite calm. I must hasten back.'
He was very pale and worn, but had a look of relief, as he wrung
Cherry's hand without trusting himself to another word. Clement
followed him to exchange a few more sentences on the blessing the
child's return had been in rousing Cherry, but he was thoroughly
angered and vexed at the usage his sons had evidently inflicted on
their guest.
Poor child, he would have been far better off taking his chance amid
all the home distress than dragged off to the tender mercies of his
natural enemies. Marilda had received him as a sort of prey of her
own, and resolved to win his heart while doing a real service by
undertaking the care of the children, but the three boys were all of
genera new to her. Kester openly defied her and led his little brother,
and she grated on Gerald just as she had once grated on his aunt. As
she had seized him officiously without asking counsel, she had not
been cautioned on the peculiar treatment he required, and Ferdinand
never thought of her not understanding it by sympathy like the aunts.
However, as long as the kind almost motherly Mary Vanderkist was there,
the child was tolerably happy, but when she was gone, and Fernan in his
voluntary exile, he had no protector, and matters became far worse when
Marilda had removed to the Rood, intending the children to spend the
days there with her.
The first day had disgusted Kester and Edward with her parlour and her
babyish games, and they refused to go thither again, or else rushed
home as soon as her bonbons failed. Gerald could not walk so far, and
no one remembered to take him, while Marilda, hurt at her ill success
with the ungrateful boys, absorbed in tidings from the Priory, and in
sending them on to her mother and Fernan, and provided with a very
different object of life from the adoption of Edgar's boy, was more
relieved than disappointed at their non-appearance. The cottage and
nursery were disorganized by the mother's illness, and the two boys
exercised unlimited tyranny over their victim. Kester, two years
older than Gerald, and with twice his strength, could inflict all the
cruelties by which the young male animal delights to test his power.
The little wretch had Harewood wit enough for the invention of horrid
bugbears, frightful to the nervous temperament he deemed cowardice.
Between these, and the torment of being pushed, pinched, drummed, and
hunted with ruthless violence, together with a mind confused as to
whether all he loved, Felix, Chérie, Lance and all, had not vanished
like his father, poor Gerald had come to such misery that, on being
told that cousin Marilda had sent for a great new Locomotive, named
Fiery Dragon, to carry him away right in the boiler, he could bear it
no longer. He had certified himself from the window that the Priory
at least still existed, had struggled down that giddy horror the
stairs (where indeed Kester had once already goaded him down with a
broomstick), and when once alone, awakening to his prairie resources,
had made his way to the road, on seeing no means of passing the river
to the garden, and had crept along, sitting down to rest, till seeing
a carter boy with his sleek horses on the road, he had coaxed him to
give him a ride on the broad back of one, and thus had arrived at the
garden gate, made his way in, again achieved the staircase, and found
his refuge at last in his Chérie's arms, not, however, till his system
had received shocks enough to throw him sadly back. He was stiff in
every limb, and wearied to excess, but slightly fevered, and haunted
with terrors none the less miserable because imaginary. Nothing soothed
him, but to have his aunt hanging over him caressing, talking, reading,
nay even playing with him with a lump like lead in her heart, but her
child's necessities preventing it from rising up to crush her.
Major Harewood might permit licence, but he was thoroughly master, and
presently he brought up his culprits, shame-faced and tear-stained
after their first castigation, and dictated their sobbing but sullen
apology. The benefit to them, and to all whom they might have bullied
in the future, might be great, but the scene was dreadful to the
sufferer, who shook from head to foot, and when bidden to shake hands,
held out his little white fingers with tremor that grieved more than
it surprised the Major after the confession he had extorted, of hair
pulled to make the scar bleed, of ambushes in dark corners, of the
stimulus of the gig whip to quicken the steps.
He sent Mr. Page to inspect the victim, who was pronounced to be on the
verge of nervous fever, so that Cherry and Lance had to devote their
whole selves to him for the next few days, watching even when he dozed,
since he would sometimes scream himself awake in a renewal of the real
or imaginary horrors.
Was it a burthen? It might seem one, but such anxiety was the best
distraction, the child's improvement the best earthly solace of which
the sick and laden heart was susceptible.
The unmarried woman seldom escapes a widowhood of the spirit There is
sure to be some one, parent, brother, sister, friend, more comfortable
to her than the day, with whom her life is so entwined that the wrench
of parting leaves a torn void never entirely healed or filled, and
this is above all the case when the separation is untimely, and the
desolation is where lifelong hopes and dependence have been gathered up.
Thus it was with Geraldine. Her brother had been the medium through
which earth had love, joy, or interest for her. He was gone, and after
her first annihilation, she mourned less externally than some of the
others, because she knew she should mourn for life.
She did not weep nor bewail herself, but when not engrossed by her
boy, she sat silent, inert, crushed. However she responded to all
kindness, sadly but gratefully, and Mr. Audley soon found that the
fittest way to cheer her was to lead her to the dear reminiscences of
her brother's past life, of which happily Gerald was pleased to hear.
He might not enter into all, but he would lie gazing with his soft dark
eyes, and sleepily listening, soothed by the low calm voices in which
the dear old days were called up, and Mr. Audley was told the details
of Felix's doings and sayings in the years of his absence. And out of
such memories seemed to rise upon the sister strength, serenity, and a
sense of unbroken love, as though Felix were still her chief comforter,
even as when he used to rock his baby. The sorrow was unappeasable, and
external words even of the highest comfort fell cold on her ear, though
she tried to accept them, but to recall the thoughts and promises
through her brother's value for them gave them life, and quickened her
into the endeavour to attend to all he would have wished to be done for
the others.
Angela, unwell with a heavy feverish cold and pain in the face, could
by no means be kept still, wandering about like a perturbed spirit,
trying all sorts of occupations, but never pursuing them for five
minutes together. When her Hepburn friends came to see her, she sent
down for answer a fierce impatient 'I can't,' which Robina of course
translated more civilly. The good ladies were greatly moved and full of
sympathy, eager to tell of the exceeding sorrow of the whole parish,
and in the midst, Angela, in her aimless changes of purpose, came into
the room. Miss Isabella's kind arms were held out, but she backed out
of them, and when after some more kind expressions the visitor added,
'certainly, whatever differences existed, we all feel that your dear
brother was truly one of the elect,' Angela startled her with a sort of
shriek--'Miss Isa, don't go on! I won't have it! You don't know what a
ten thousand times better Christian than any of us you are patronizing.
You and your--your--your (Robina was afraid she said cant) have gone
and set up a barrier between me and the very dearest of brothers. Oh!
my brother. Oh!'
She fled in a passion of tears, Miss Isabella looked inexpressibly
shocked, and Robina tried to plead ungovernable grief that knew not
what it uttered. The kind ladies excused readily, only begging to be
sent for in case her mind should turn towards them, a contingency
just now most unlikely; for of all names poor Angela seemed to loathe
none so much as Hepburn, and she absolutely gave way to a fretful fit
of scolding when Clement gratefully mentioned their consideration in
undertaking some of the parish Christmas business.
For several days Sister Constance had never ventured to leave Wilmet,
but on the last evening when it was possible to look on Felix's face,
Major Harewood released her from the bedside, and bade his brother
ferry her over to spend an hour at the Priory.
After a solemn interval spent in the infinite peace of the Oratory,
William conducted her to the painting-room. It was twilight, Geraldine
was sitting by the fire with little Gerald on her lap, murmuring some
story to him, and Robina was stamping a pile of black-edged letters,
while notes of the organ, Lance's chief solace, came ever and anon in
from the church. As the Sister advanced something long and black reared
itself out of a dark corner, and clasped her round the waist, crying
out, 'Sister Constance! Sister, take me! Why was not I always with you!
Oh! I must come.'
It was enough to startle any timid person, sobbed out as the words
were. 'Gently, Angel, gently,' said Cherry, and Robina was prepared
to unfasten her like a wild creature, but Sister Constance, tenderly
kissing the hot forehead, said, 'Softly, my poor child, we will see
about it.'
'Don't see about it!' cried Angela, in the childish phrase of
impatience. 'It is my only refuge! I'm not fit to be in the world.'
'Let go, Angela,' said Robina, 'you don't know what you are doing!'
'Promise! promise!' repeated Angela, only the more passionately.
'I have no power to promise,' said the voice, so soothing in its
authority. 'You know you have given up your claim.'
'Oh! I was misled! I was blind! I did not know! I was mad; but you'll
forgive--you will let me come.'
'Only our Mother Superior and the chaplain can judge whether you can
be taken back. Nothing can be done in this sudden way. We will talk it
over quietly by-and-by. Now, my dear, let me speak to your sisters.'
Subdued by her tone, Angela stood aside, and after the greeting, Robina
collected her letters and went away to her Willie.
Sister Constance was little changed since she had come in among the
desolate children eighteen years ago. That which had taken away her
youth and sunshine had been long previous, and there was little
noticeable alteration except that each year which carried her further
from the agitation of grief confirmed her habits, strengthened her
hope, and added to her serenity and sweetness. As she sat down, Angela
dropped on the floor, leaning against her black serge dress, while
her gentle stroking hand on the coils of hair must have been almost
magnetic, for it was long since the girl had spent so many minutes in
tranquillity, as while the Sister and Cherry talked over her head.
First as to Wilmet, who was rallying the forces of her sound health and
constitution. Throughout, Sister Constance said the presence of her
twin sister had done more good than anything else. When nothing was so
needed as quiet and sleep, Alda had lain down by her side and stroked
and fondled her, and she had forgotten all that had passed since the
two fair heads had last rested beside one another, laid the invincible
weight of sorrow on her, to the account of the earliest sorrow of
her life, and when disturbed by her boys' voices, called them by the
names of her brothers, and yet she had never failed in recognition of
her husband. She was now quite herself, only so weak that she shrank
from thought or speech, and merely rested in Alda's presence. Cherry
had hardly hitherto comprehended how nearly both their pillars of
the house had gone together, and she could now feel thankful, though
more for John's sake than with the sense that any loss could make
much difference to herself, and much more did she care to hear Sister
Constance express her admiration of the calm victorious beauty of the
brow she had first seen on that dark confused winter evening when the
task was just beginning which was at last laid down. She had been
struck by the identity of the countenance. The man of four-and-thirty
had lost none of the candour and purity of the boy; the lad of sixteen
had already much of the grave steadfast sweetness of the man. She
thought they would know him in the Resurrection by that look.
The talk came only too soon to an end. With the precision of a woman
living under discipline, the Sister watched the clock, and rose up five
minutes before it struck, saying that her time would be up by the time
she was put across the river. Geraldine kissed her in acquiescence, but
Angela pursued her into the gallery, and tried to drag her to her own
room, 'I must talk to you, I want to tell you how I came to send back
my medal!'
'My dear, I cannot stay. Major Harewood must be set free to go to his
dinner.'
'Only five seconds, to beg you to manage! I must confess to Father
Willoughby.'
'Angela, you know enough of us to know that it is not allowable to
linger over an appointed time.'
'Oh! I know I am undisciplined.'
'Submit to discipline, then.'
'I wanted to explain,' following her downstairs.
'Hush!' said the Sister, gravely signing towards the curtains that hung
over the archway leading to the long room and the oratory beyond. Awed
by this ruthless silencing, she could only follow spaniel-like to the
drawing-room, where William had told Sister Constance she would find
him, and he was standing over the fire talking to Robina.
Allowing them a moment for their farewells, Sister Constance put her
arm round Angela. 'Poor child,' she said, 'when I can, we will talk.
Meantime this is the best I can say to you: "Commune with your own
heart, and in your chamber, and be still."'
Poor Angel! The religion that had consisted partly in music, flowers,
and excitement, and the rest in mechanical party-spirit, had been
totally unreal and unpractical, though with a sound theology and
fitful aspirations for better things when she should have had her swing.
When religion _such as she had made it_ proved wholly inadequate to
her need, her friend's influence led her to the central Verity where
alone rest could be found. Then having brought herself to the sense
of individual pardon through faith, she discarded all besides, hotly
revenging herself on what she took for impediments, and striving to
stir up that assurance of forgiveness which was all feeling by all
external means. The discovery of the inconsistency of her guides,
and the knowledge of Felix's condition had come upon her at the same
time, and the latter had blotted out everything else. During the
ensuing weeks everything was lost in the sight of her brother's fatal
suffering, all through her own ungovernable levity. The sting she had
smothered in the vague _en masse_ repentance which made an unsorted
heap of her sins, and lavished hard names on it, now came forth with a
barb of poisoned acuteness. For those two months devoted attendance on
her brother had been her whole religion, but there was that about him
which always made the endeavour to please him no small training, how
much more when he was on the verge of the River.
He did not preach or argue, he was simply himself, and the constant
endeavour to ascertain his doings and understand his expression
revealed to her much of his mind, all the more perhaps because she
never spoke, she hardly thought, she only received impressions.
And above all, that upward look with which he met that last full
absolution, that expression of intense acceptance and gratitude
of sight rather than faith, had dwelt on her ever since, not
merely casting out the memory of the pain-wrung features, but even
overmastering the image of the grand monumental placidity which had
settled down on the countenance at rest from its labours.
That absolution! She had heard it before, perhaps too early, certainly
too much as a matter of course, for actions whose faultiness was
visible enough, but which involved no true contrition. So little had
it touched her innermost soul, or so little innermost was there to
be touched, that its familiarity had made her spurn it as an empty
insufficient delusion in her despair in the summer, and catch at
the notion which condemned its utterance by a mere man as vain and
presumptuous. Her careless touch had turned the Golden Key to lead, and
only when she saw it held to the faithful did the gold shine out once
more.
There was no pause to think till the mortal struggle was over, but then
came the revulsion, and the peace she had seen so real in her brother
brought her back to the wildest longing to experience the same, through
the same means, and yet the reluctance to turn to the ordinary helps
before her still made her hang back from her brother Clement, or Mr.
Fulmort. They would look, if not say, 'So here you are at last.' If
their principles were right, as Felix's acceptance proved, of course
it was their own fault that she had not been more good. They shared in
her intolerable loathing for whatever was around her, her madness to
be out of sight of everything and everybody, and wretched feeling of
impatience. The sight of Sister Constance suddenly gave this longing
an object. Her old love of St Faith's revived, and therewith the
desire to find a spiritual healer in Mr. Willoughby, the chaplain,
who was comparatively a stranger to her, though Mr. Audley had left
Cherry under his care, and he had of late become a good deal noted
as a director. This was what she wanted to say! Could she but have
talked to Sister Constance, and shown the peculiarity of her case, the
insufficiency of her guides, the really tragic nature of her troubles,
she _must_ have obtained the object she had become set upon in these
few minutes, namely, leaving the dreariness of home by hurrying to St
Faith's and Mr. Willoughby, when Lance should return to his business on
Monday.
Cruel Sister, to have postponed such misery to John Harewood's dinner!
'Commune with your own heart.' A fine way of refusing confidence! Yet
Angela was nurse enough to know the need of punctuality in relieving
guard, and Sister Constance could not have been spared much longer.
Wilmet knew it was Alda's last evening, and must not be allowed to
dwell on the thought. For poor Alda durst not ask for a respite. She
must go away with her husband as soon as the funeral was over, for she
believed Ferdinand Travis was still at hand, and durst not inquire. She
was still conscious. Nay, most poignant grief of all was the sense that
the dark noble countenance was dearer to her than when she had raved
about its beauty, and that it could still make her heart throb wildly.
It was a humiliating, involuntary sin, the outcome of the voluntary sin
of past years, of those blind heartless manoeuvres to which she looked
back in amazement as she contrasted her actual life with that which she
had thrown away, while watching unconscious manifestations of devoted
conjugal affection, such as she had never before missed because she
had never conceived them. Avoidance was all that was possible to her.
Her little girls must be her refuge! Was not the man still single, and
could she help feeling a certain satisfaction in the thought?
Poor Alda! She was up in her sister's room that afternoon when Marilda
and Miss Martha Hepburn encountered one another on their daily visit of
inquiry in the cottage drawing-room, and Miss Martha had ventured on
congratulating Miss Underwood.
'Who told you?' bluntly exclaimed Marilda.
'I beg your pardon! Indeed--I thought--We heard it on good
authority--Shall we contradict it?'
'Say nothing about it! We particularly wish it not to be mentioned,'
almost growled the heiress, 'I would have given anything that it should
not have been known at such a time.'
Miss Martha was dismayed, and retreated amid showers of promises of
secrecy, but with the elation of having confirmed the fact.
Marilda exclaimed, 'How horrid! Who can have gossiped? Now, John, do me
a kindness! You tell Alda! I can't!'
'I am afraid I must ask the other half----'
'Can't you tell? No wonder. He is so much too good for me.'
'That's uncle Bill,' broke out the unsuspected Eddie, with his mouth
full of her chocolate creams. 'He's worth ever so much more than you.'
'I have a better guess,' said his father, unable to help laughing,
'Travis? I heartily congratulate you. Never was there a nobler fellow!'
'It ought not to have been _now_,' said Marilda, 'but we could not
help it. It had all been one long, long misunderstanding, and it came
right of itself as soon as we began to talk to one another. Fernan says
poor Edgar wished it, and dear Felix knew it, and sent us a blessing
through Mr. Audley, but we meant no one to know for a month, or till I
had gone home. It seems so unfeeling.'
'I do not think it will seem so here,' said John. 'You know Charlie's
proposal rose almost out of Stella's grief for Theodore,' and as
Marilda was trying to guess who had spread the report, he added, 'Never
mind. Of course we know such things are in the very air.'
'It is Alda that concerns me,' said she, her face on fire, 'I would not
have her hear it indirectly.'
So John, who had first known Alda and Fernan as the senior lovers,
while he was still in suspense, undertook the communication and made it
when Alda was pouring out his tea that evening. Her hand was steady,
but her lips drew together as she said, 'Riches to riches.'
'True, but hardly just.'
'No. _She_ likes him,' and the emphasis was bitter. 'Can a woman be
fair towards the man who once loved her?' thought John, but restrained
his speech.
'How long has this been?' asked Alda, presently.
'I cannot tell. Quite recently, no doubt, but long enough to give
pleasure to your dear brother.'
'Felix knew?'
'So she says.'
He did not understand her look of pain as she thought of Felix's cry
of indignation on her light avowal of the insinuation which had parted
those two, securing the one for herself and casting the other over to
him, but her womanly instinct strove to hide the pang or excuse it with
a half truth.
'I can't help thinking of my husband's disappointment. He reckoned on
her as the benevolent genius of our family.'
'I have little faith in benevolent genii.'
'Not equal to three per cents, as he would say. You are wealthy enough
to be shocked at the worldliness of those who have to live up to a
position. However, there is no reason to regret it! They have more in
common than appears at first sight.'
And she soon escaped. Three lines of truly kind congratulation lay on
Marilda's toilette table the next morning. Alda attempted no more--hers
was a grief that would not brook the light.
So morning dawned on the day when the Church was to give the brothers
and sisters voice for their farewells to that beloved and honoured head
of their orphaned home.
So far as depended on them, and by Felix's own express written desire,
all was far plainer than in the case of their parents, when he had been
in bondage to Thomas Underwood's views of propriety. Now--so far from
the seventy-five yards of black cloth bedecking the church, it had not
lost one holly wreath, one ivy streamer: the scarlet and white flowers
were fresh, the star of Bethlehem in pale bright everlasting flowers
still stood prominent, and in letters of golden straw the Epiphany
promise:
'The sun shall no more be thy light by day,
Neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee,
But the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light,
And thy God thy glory.'
No pauper funeral there was simpler, for the same purple velvet pall
with the red cross stretching its arms over the coffin in protection
was used for the poorest; the plain oak only bore the name and date,
and the brothers and friends bedizened themselves with no foolish
gloomy streamers or scarfs, as they drew together to follow the
farm-labourers who bore what remained of Felix from the steps of the
hall door where, four years and a half before, he had spoken forth his
purpose to live there to the glory of God and the good of his neighbour.
So he passed from the home he had never coveted, though he had loved it
better than aught save the home beyond.
The Bishop of the diocese had desired to testify his esteem by
welcoming him to the Rest of those who die in the Lord, and Clement
was thus one of the eight brothers and sisters who followed first. The
nearest of all was tacitly allowed to be Geraldine, upon his arm, while
he led Gerald. Not only was the child his uncle's heir and head of the
name, but Cherry and Lance found that to see and know all was best for
him. Poor Edgar's wish that people could be sublimated away had been
in a measure fulfilled in his case as regarded his little son, and the
consequence had been a vague horror and mystery that had haunted him
till he was led to gaze at and kiss his uncle's calm white face, and
then, after long dreamy thought, he had said in a voice of comfort,
'Then Daddy was like that.' Kester was there, too, in his father's
hand, awed but sharply observant. And besides these, and the nearest
connections and friends, there was all the parish, farmers, tenants,
labourers and all! Scarcely a cottage but rang with the lament, 'We,
shall never have such another Squire;' almost every woman was sobbing
with the infectious agitation of that class; the big lads, whom he had
taught on many a Sunday and winter evening, were even more unrestrained
in their grief, and many a rugged old labourer echoed the elegy, 'Well
now I did reckon never to have seen the last of he, but the likes of
him was too good for we. I never had a beast out of the ordinar but it
was sure to go the first!'
Not only Vale Leston was there but almost all the gentry and
fellow-magistrates, Sir Vesey Hammond's white head conspicuously, also
a whole company of familiar Bexley faces. They had given no notice lest
the family should put themselves to inconvenience, but there they all
were, the Mayor, Mr. Bruce, Mr. Jones, Mr. Prothero, and many another
also come with old Mr. Harewood and Ernest Lamb, who, poor fellow,
looked as if the foundations of the earth had given way with him. The
late Rector had written his excuses on the score of health, but Doctor
Ryder was present, and Mr. Audley had been called out to speak to his
old colleague Mowbray Smith, who had come many miles to testify his
gratitude to 'the best friend and truest I ever met, though I was
such a fool as not to know it at the time.' Of course the Vicar of
St Matthew's had come early enough to join the family in the morning
Sacrifice of thanksgiving, and as Robina moved on in the confused maze
of sorrowful faces, she recognised the familiar head of Lord Ernest. It
was as if Felix had left such a mark on all who came in contact with
him, that none could abstain from testifying honour and gratitude, and
yet it had been a very simple life. As he had said himself, he had done
nothing but what he felt obliged to do. There was nothing however to
which he had set his hand that was not in a better state than when he
had taken it up.
So 'his works did follow him,' so had he 'served God in his
generation'--as happy a fate as man can have, and those who were older
than the bereaved brothers and sisters had learnt that however sad it
seems to be cut off in the prime of life, with schemes of good all
unfulfilled, yet it is like a general dying in the moment of victory,
with the cup of tedium, failure, disappointment, and decadence all
untasted.
It was a long procession that was met by the Bishop and his clergy,
with the present Rector of Bexley and Mr. Colman of Ewmouth, and not
only the Vale Leston choir, but many of those from St Oswald's. Well
might Felix thus be greeted. Very few were the Sundays, since his
father first had robed him in his little surplice and told him of
Samuel, that he had not sung his part, he had not even had any long
interval of broken voice, and had been retained during that time for
the sake of his influence. Like everything else, his musical talent had
been used primarily for the glory of his Maker.
What with the sweet sounds, the evergreen wreaths, the festal
colouring, and the flowery crosses and wreaths carried by so many,
there was more of grave joy than of grief and wailing apparent after
the service once began. Sorrow without hope it could not be, solemn as
it was when, as Felix himself had bidden, looking up to his Angel with
the trumpet, it was the awful _Dies Irae_ that heralded his way to the
open grave beside his little Theodore, under the leafless willow-tree,
which recalled the effort that had cost them all so dear.
Yes, Felix had laid down his charge, and gone to rest from his labours,
and as 'Safe home' finally closed the service, did not Geraldine think
of her fleet of boats and long for safety in the haven, whither her
flag-ship had now attained? Yearningly she bent forward, aided by
Clement, for her last sight of the coffin and the dear name 'Felix
Chester Underwood,' never again to be a household call. She hung so
long over it that Clement would fain have drawn her back, and as she
resisted, was trying to find voice to bid her remember that 'he is not
here,' when little Gerald, struck perhaps by the words of the hymn, and
connecting it with the earth he had seen and heard dropping in, reached
out of Lance's arms, where he had been lifted, touched her and said,
'Was not that baptizing him again for the Resurrection of the dead?'
She heard, and her boy was her best comforter again, bringing back the
trust to see 'that countenance pure again,' and to look up instead of
down.
So her brothers led her away, but there was no quiet time yet The
Bishop had considerately refused to come to the house, but Clement must
of course go and speak to him, thank him, and bear the expression of
his warm feeling for the family and reverence and gratitude to the man
who had so changed his parish.
Geraldine had to go to the drawing-room with her sisters, Marilda, and
Gertrude May, whose right to be present all had felt. Her eyes were
dim, her colouring paled, she looked as if she had been weeping ever
since they had last met, and she only tried to avoid obtruding her
presence or her grief. Her father soon came for her. He took Cherry's
hand, saying, 'My dear, trust an old man. You can't feel it now, but
our jewels become dearer in the diadem, and when our hearts go after
them, there is rest.'
Cherry tried to smile thanks but was too sad to take home the comfort.
She wanted her jewel now!
Food must be eaten, for Marilda and the two married sisters were going
away, but before the move to depart, Clement said, 'There are so many
of us that we think all should hear about the property together before
there is any break-up.'
So Major Harewood, with a draft of the will in his hand, explained.
Land, house, furniture, everything at Vale Leston of course, descended
to Gerald Felix Underwood under the trusteeship of Clement, John
Harewood, and Ferdinand Travis. The personal guardianship was reserved
to Geraldine with £500 a year until the heir should be of age. If he
should die without children, the succession would of course go to
Clement, and after him it was entailed on the brothers, or their heirs
in due order. Besides this the estate was charged with £500 a year,
as an income for each of the sisters who might remain single. On her
marriage each would have £500 down, the annuity of the others remaining
untouched, unless one entered a sisterhood, when £50 per annum should
be paid for her. To Lancelot was left unreservedly the whole of the
acquisitions at Bexley, house, shares in the business, stock, and
Pursuivant. There was an annuity of £30 to Sybilla Macnamara, a legacy
to Martha, and to the old foreman, and that was all. John and Lancelot
were executors.
The first feeling was of surprise that Bernard was only mentioned as
last in the entail. Cherry and Lance both turned to him. 'It shall be
all the same, Bernard; he means us to do it.'
'No, he doesn't,' gruffly answered Bernard.
'Of course we can manage for you,' added Clement; 'as long as you work,
there can be no difficulty.'
No thanks, no reply, indeed, followed, and Sir Adrian bade Alda hasten
if she wished to take leave of her sister. Major Harewood would take
her across at once, and she would be called for at the cottage on
the way to the station. Wilmet was reported to have lain very still,
shedding a good many soft tears, but not seeming the worse.
Alda held Geraldine closer than she had ever done before, and
entreated, 'Write often, and let me know about you all. I wish we had
been more together.'
Marilda was going to London with her, Sir Adrian was still in ignorance
of the coming blow, and there was nothing in the farewell to Ferdinand
to make him expect it, so his scowl at his wife's hand-shake was on the
old score. Poor Alda, at least she had her children.
Their sweet Princess Fair Star! Yes, she must go! Captain Audley was
waiting to drive the young couple to meet the express. They were to
take a fortnight's quiet in the Isle of Wight, and then enter on their
new world. It was time Charlie should have his wife to himself after
all the patience, unselfishness, consideration, and helpfulness that
had sealed him as a true brother, and endeared him the more from the
contrast not only to Alda's husband but to his own father.
Clement had to be the parental brother to lead the bride to the
carriage. He kissed and blessed her in the porch, saying, 'Little one,
you have had a sad beginning, but I am glad you were still one with us.
We know you all the more.'
'We are glad,' said Stella. 'This is worth more than weeks of
happiness.'
'She is right,' said Charlie. 'We would not but have staid for worlds!
We ought always to be the better for it. It has made the world look so
different to us!'
'But that difference is not gloom,' said his uncle; and the 'Oh no' on
his lips, and the bright crystal tears in Stella's eyes were no more
gloomy than her diamonds when Felix was musing over them.
So the others turned back into the house that felt so large and
empty, and they so few. Clement tendered an arm to help Geraldine
upstairs. Somehow, long as it was since she had leant on Felix, this
action brought a great sense of change. Clement's aid was the careful
bending tenderness of a very tall man towards a small woman; Felix
had been more nearly on her level; and merry old boasts on this score
came piteously to the minds of both. The brother, who had borne up so
strongly through all these days of sorrow and suffering, and months of
pain and suspense, found his effort at cheering turn to a sob as he
said, 'Ah, Cherry, you must make the best of me. I will try to be all I
can, but never, never----'
'You are not your own self?' said Cherry, just then the braver. 'Have
not we two always hung together, Clem?'
'You are very good to say so,' he faltered.
'Good! when I just feel it,' and she pulled his arm round her. 'Dear
Clem, don't you remember the time when our pillars were away before,
and all you did for me then, when I was cross and ill? He is only gone
for a little time, you know, and he never did tell you and me to take
care of each other, because he knew it would come naturally. Dear, dear
Clem, if you weren't Clem already, should not I love you for having
been so much the nearest and most helpful to him all this time?'
'The joy of my life!' murmured Clement in a choked voice, most unlike
joy, as he leant against the door-post quite overcome.
'You'll tell me all in our long evenings. We will live with him a great
deal still, and keep him before the eyes of our dear little boy--our
charge.'
'Charge! Everything is a charge!' said Clement, wearily. 'How to act
or decide without that clear, cool, wise head! To fill his place is
impossible!' Then rousing himself, 'I beg your pardon, Cherry, I
thought I was going to do something to comfort you, instead of making a
fool of myself.'
'Making a fool of yourself makes you a great deal dearer and nicer than
if you set up for comforting,' said Cherry. 'You know as well as I do
that nobody can ever do that. Poor, dear old Clem, you are quite worn
out, and no wonder, everything has come harder on you than on any one
else. Sit down and rest;' and as she seated herself she tried to pull
him down on the sofa beside her, but he resisted. 'I wish I could,
Cherry,' he said wistfully, 'but I ought to go up to the Rood to thank
the mayor and all the rest.'
'Kind friends!' said Cherry; 'but can't Lance do it, when he goes back?'
'Less gracious; and I sent word by Lamb I was coming. There's no good
in shrinking!' said Clement, resolutely rearing himself up, but coming
back to kneel on one knee, take another embrace, and say, 'O Cherry, I
am so sorry for you, and you are so good to me!'
The humility touched her deeply. 'Not good,' she said; 'I want you, you
are my own home brother,' and he allowed his wearied head to repose for
a few moments on her shoulder as she threw her arm round him. 'Just
tell me,' she said, as he stirred again, 'does Mr. Fulmort stay?'
'Yes, over Sunday.'
'That is well. I thought so,'
'Why?'
'Because you never dare to give way but when he is at hand. Dear Clem,
I did not mean to vex you. Where should we have been if you had not
been brave and strong?'
'I can't say much for that now, Cherry,' he said, 'I must not stay. I
shall not be fit for what has still to be done.'
She heard him walk across to that untenanted room, and her love for
him was quickened. Trust in his highly principled kindness she had
always had, but to find him crushed, oppressed, overwhelmed, gave her a
fellow-feeling for him as she felt him leaning on her; and this was not
indeed consolation, but something not entirely removed from it.
His resolute, evenly-balanced manner, guarding jealously against
whatever could unnerve him, had however been kept up all along to all
the rest, as perhaps was needed by the exigencies of his situation, and
perhaps it helped to actuate Robina in the conversation she was holding
as she paced the cloister with William.
'Should you very much mind my not earning that last two hundred?'
'I? You speak as if I had ever asked you to earn anything.'
'For don't you think it seems my duty to stay and look after poor
Cherry? If Stella were left I should not mind, but no one can tell
whether Angel may not be worse than nobody; or she might yet go to St.
Faith's.'
'The best place for her.'
'So I cannot bear to leave Cherry alone with Clement and the child.
There will be Wilmet when she gets about again; but as long as her boys
are such little ruffians----'
'Not worse than we used to be to the little trebles.'
'The little trebles were not like Gerald, I should hope, and Cherry
must not have everything thrust on her at once--she who has been always
petted and made _his_ darling. Clement will be substantially kind, but
he has no petting in him, and no mercy on his tools for parish work.
He will be attentive, but all in a grand grave way, not spontaneously,
because he can't help it, and she will pine. That she will do any way,
poor dear, but it ought not to be without a sister.'
'Precisely. I am very glad.' Which he sincerely was to see affection
triumph over prudence.
'So I think of writing to Lady de la Poer and telling her not to wait
for me. Indeed, I know who would suit her. I can go and wish them all
good-bye when Wilmet is better, but I must give notice; so of course I
told you first, and I suppose I must speak to Clement.'
'He will be very thankful. He is very anxious and unhappy about Cherry.'
'And the unhappier he is, the sterner.'
'You hardly do Clement justice,' said William, gravely. 'Think of the
knowledge he has silently borne these six months. Both as brother and
as priest, he has gone further down with Felix into the valley of the
shadow of death than any one else could do, and if the chill of it has
stiffened him, it may be that only so could he serve as a support. I
assure you, Robina, I watched and wondered all last long vacation. I
saw he was unhappy and uneasy about your brother, but only now that
I understand it all do I fully appreciate his self-control and energy
through it all.'
'Self-control and energy,' said Robina. 'Yes that's just what I mean.
Don't look at me so, Willie. He is a model clergyman, I know, but I
fancy that very perfection hinders him from being the brother poor
Cherry needs. There! we are not going, of all things in the world, to
quarrel about Clement.'
'Certainly not,' said Will, smiling, 'especially as this conviction of
yours leads you in the very direction I wish, and will cure itself.'
'I know him so little,' added Robina, in excuse for herself, as she
saw how she had wounded Will's enthusiastic admiration of the very
qualities in which he felt himself the most deficient. 'You know I have
never spent three months together at home since I was seven years old,
so it is full time I learnt home-life.'
'To be domesticated,' said Will; 'but look here--why should not I go in
for the curacy, and then----'
'That's the way I am to devote myself to Cherry, eh? No, Bill, we
must be all the more staunch. Mind, the question is not whether you
and I can be content in poverty, but whether we will be a drag on our
brothers, and you a less efficient clergyman. Recollect my father.'
'I only recollect worn-out Dons.'
'Dons minus brains! You always wanted to do it all, and now you have
your way. Two years more, and I really think we shall do!' (For Robina
kept the account of the investments.)
'You miser! At least I shall know you are safe here, and of that I am
heartily glad. I never could forgive the Repworth folk for being your
masters.'
'Very ungrateful!' said Robina. 'I don't know how to think of not going
back to my dear little girls, and their mother!'--and tears came to her
eyes, for she could not but feel that home had lost all its brightness
and much of its sweetness.
'I think,' said Bill, musingly, 'it is wonderful how, with such a set
of strong wills as you Underwoods have, you should have all preserved
such perfect union.'
'Have we such strong wills?'
'Do you ask a poor victim like me, whose only chance is in some slight
confusion on your part which your own Will may be? Look at Clement,
like a piece of iron when his mind is made up; look at Wilmet; look
at Angel; look at Lance. Why, his power of resistance had changed the
whole tone of us choir boys before he was thirteen. In fact, I believe
it is that strength of character that keeps you harmonious. You don't
worry about straws, or clash, or pother, but know when and to whom to
give way with a good grace.'
'We did,' sighed Robina. 'We could not help it then. Ah! here comes
Clement. I had better have it out with him at once.'
She was touched, perceiving the tokens of tears, and still more by his
gratitude when he learnt her intention. 'Thank you,' he warmly said. 'I
durst not ask it of you, but it is an immense relief to me on our dear
Cherry's account.'
'Have you been with her? How is she?'
'Braver and sweeter than I dared hope,' he said, his eyes filling
again. 'Surely the Communion of saints is beginning to bring her
refreshment and strength! She put me so much in mind of _him_--'
He passed on, for he was on his way to the Rood, but meant to calm
himself by a few moments in the Church. There, however, he was
surprised by a low sound of voices, and noiselessly following it up, he
beheld, unseen himself, Mr. Fulmort and Angela in the Lady Chapel, and
went on his way with a heart disburthened of one of its loads.
Yes. This had been the effect of Sister Constance's words: 'Commune
with your own heart.' In the hope, nay, purpose, of at least going
to Bexley with Lance on the Monday, and laying her case before Mr.
Willoughby, Angela had gone to her room to prepare her confession,
using the methods of self-examination taught her in old times, and in
a mood to enhance rather than slur over anything she detected. Behold,
as she tried herself by the questions so long laid aside, they assumed
new force and meaning! The once blunted probes had acquired a sharpness
they had never had before, and among her many discoveries was that her
extreme dislike to having recourse to the Vicar of St Matthew's was,
first, because it was Clement's desire, secondly, because, instead of
an interesting penitent with a tragic crime on her hands, she should
only come as the naughty girl he had known all her life; and thirdly,
not because of his mismanagement, but because he understood her all too
well, and had warned her of the very errors that had eaten into her
life. It was only pride and love of excitement that impelled her to
seek a fresh director; and it was the turning point of her life that
when the conviction dawned on her she did not turn her back on it, but
it so wrought with her as to take her to the Lady Chapel with her first
and most parental spiritual guide on that winter afternoon of mourning.
At the end of the long interview, as the young moon shone into the
twilight church, while Angela knelt on, humbled, softened, the turbid
waters of her spirit quelled, and a more peaceful sorrow than she had
ever known resting on her, there stole along the aisles the notes of--
'Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.
Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and say unto her,
That her warfare is accomplished,
That her iniquity is pardoned.'
It was like a welcome from the heavenly choir to the one sinner that
repenteth.
Of course it was Lance, after his duty by his fellow-mourners had been
done, and he had seen them off to Bexley. He had no one to pace the
cloister with, and the organ had been the chief solace and exponent of
his sorrows and his yearnings. Poor Lance, who must henceforth work for
himself instead of his brother, and turn out Pursuivants, for which
at present he only cared because any deterioration therein would be
treason to that Editor who had worked at them with loving conscientious
might. The whole bequest, so justly earned as all felt it to be, was
heartless and distasteful; he was disgusted to find himself a man of
substance, and not only his fellow-citizens, but Fulbert had distressed
him by congratulations. Fulbert had employed his time at Bexley in
falling in love with Lizzie Bruce, and had therefore kept close to her
father all this time, and finally driven him to the station in the
dog-cart; and it was rather an effort to Lance to listen amiably to
the raptures of prosperous love; above all, when he had just missed
the glance, hand-pressure and farewell, which however mournful and
indifferent this would have probably been, his heart and soul hungered
and thirsted after. He had fancied Dr. May and his daughter would stay
for luncheon, and had missed their departure by exhibiting little
Gerald to some of Edgar's old friends, and the loss of the one moment
he had anticipated with a throb of pleasure depressed him more than was
reasonable. And yet!--There was nothing for it but to try to soothe his
spirit with the harmonies that often seemed to him all he cared to live
for, and fortunately there was a musical pupil teacher always looking
about in the hope that Mr. Lancelot would want his services to blow for
him.
He played till the bell began for even-song, and, one after another,
an unusually full congregation began to drop in, including even two
of the Miss Hepburns. The service was shared between old Mr. Harewood
and Mr. Fulmort, only glad to relieve the three overwrought clergy
who had borne the brunt of this Epiphany tide. Clement's paleness and
depression were evident enough now, though still against his will.
'Angela, my dear,' he said, overtaking her in the hall, as she was
going upstairs, 'Wilmet has asked for you to come and help Sister
Constance in Alda's place. If you can fetch what you want at once, I
will put you over.'
'O, thank you!' she cried, flushing with colour at the unexpected
boon, as well as at the soft gentleness of his tone, which had of late
in their hours of nursing been apt to be quick, stern, and decisive
towards her, partly from his own repressed grief, partly from her habit
of repelling his advances.
'You had better let me,' said Lance, as she ran upstairs. 'You are
pretty well what Gerald calls used up.'
'Thank you, I wish to do this,' said Clement. 'O Lance, Dr. May and
his daughter asked especially after you, and told me to give you their
good-byes. And here,' lowering his voice, 'here is something I was
bidden to give you.'
Lance looked at the address, and carried it quickly upstairs. It was
one of Felix's neat envelopes with the crest and motto, and the address
to L.O. Underwood Esq., in the familiar writing, just such as those
which he had been wont to receive by hundreds. Within was a note with a
still fragrant spray of dried myrtle. The contents were:
August 20th, 1872.
MY DEAREST LANCEY BOY,
I do not want to make the business a burthen and a tie to you.
You have slaved enough at uncongenial and solitary drudgery for
my sake. I would not ask you to go on with it on any account.
I only beg you to wait one half year, and if by that time you
see no prospect of what would sweeten your labours, then do as
you judge best about disposing of it, and using the proceeds as
you please. I know you will provide against my poor Pur falling
into hands that might sully or pervert such testimony as it
is able to bear. For the rest, let it be as your judgment and
wishes guide you. But be patient and not discouraged. I have
ascertained that there will be no opposition from the father,
and I am mistaken if you do not succeed at last. I dare not
pray for any earthly boon, the sense of ignorance in asking
becomes so much deepened, but if I prayed for anything definite
it would be for that reward for you. As it is, I venture only
to ask that joys and blessings the highest and the sweetest
may be showered on you, my very dear brother; you who came to
help me in the time of greatest need, and whose whole life has
been a continual sacrifice of taste, enterprise, and ambition
for my sake. If Clement is my chief aid in this present pass,
it is you to whom I have owed the most through life, and I
cannot believe I shall ever become insensible to it. Perhaps
there will be no leave-taking. If not, take this as mine, and
believe, as I do, that we shall still join our voices with
Angels and Archangels, and all the company of Heaven; and look
on to the day when for the sake of the Lamb who was slain our
praise may be perfected. God bless you, my dear Lance, and
bring us both to meet in that everlasting Home where there is
no parting.
My love to dear old Mrs. Froggatt.
Give your Daisy this myrtle spray when she is yours, and with
it a brother's love from me.
Believe me ever
Your grateful and loving brother,
F.C. UNDERWOOD.
And while Lance stood in his room, drinking in with his eyes these
words of affection, Angela upon the moonlit river was craving Clement's
pardon for all her manifold transgressions against him.
'My dear,' he answered in a deep, sad, but sweet voice, 'I have quite
as many errors against you for which to reproach myself.'
Then as they landed on the narrow sward, he put his arm round her and
kissed her, and she found his tears raining on her face.
'My child, I have not done well by you,' he said, 'but I believe our
dear brother has turned your face right again, and I am thankful for
it. I think we shall begin a new life towards one another now. Good
night, and may His blessing be with you.'