“Tender companions of our serious days,
Who colour with your kisses, smiles and tears,
Life’s worn web woven over wasted ways.”
—LOWELL.
THERE was a good deal of worry and anxiety for some little time, while
correspondence was going on about Henry Merrifield’s will, and in the
meantime Angela decided to board with Miss Prescott, since her charge was
certainly much better in health there; and besides, as Mrs. Bernard
Merrifield was naturally at Clipstone, it became the head quarters of her
husband, though he made many excursions to his own people, and on
business affairs to Sir Ferdinand Travis Underwood in London.
And Clipstone suited him well for his holiday. Sir Jasper had, of
course, a certain amount of intercourse with the garrison at Avoncester,
and the officers stationed there at present had already some acquaintance
with Bernard Underwood, who was known to be a champion in Ceylon in all
athletic sports, especially polo and cricket. Tall and well made, he had
been devoted to all such games in his youth, and they had kept up his
health in his sedentary occupation. Now, in his leisure time, his
prowess did much to efface the fame of the much younger and slighter
Alexis White, and, so far as might be, Angela enjoyed the games with him,
keeping well within bounds, but always feeling activity a wholesome
outlet for her superfluous strength, and, above all, delighting in an
interval of being a child again with her Bear of old times; and her
superabundant life, energy, and fun amazed all, especially by the
contrast with her poor little languid charge, who seemed, as Jane Mohun
said, centuries older.
The Merrifield lads were also devoted to him. Even Fergus was somewhat
distracted from his allegiance to Dolores and her experiments, and in the
very few days that Christmas afforded for skating, could think of nothing
else.
And as to Wilfred, his whole mind seemed to be set on sports, and marble
works to be only an incident thrown in. Bernard, whom he followed
assiduously, and who took him to Avoncester, and introduced him to young
officers, began to have doubts whether he had done wisely. Bernard had,
in his time, vexed Felix’s soul by idleness and amusement, but he had
been one betted upon, not himself given to betting. He loved football
and cricket for their bodily excitement, not the fictitious one of a
looker on, or reader of papers, and it struck him that Wilfred knew a
good deal too much about this more dangerous side of races and athletics.
He said so to Angela, and she answered, “Oh, nonsense! Young men are out
of it if they don’t know the winning horse. Even _Pur_ had to be up to
the Derby.”
And Angela had her own bitter trial in the decision of the lawyers. Not
only was the signature of the will unsatisfactory, from the confusion
between Field and Merrifield, but the two witnesses failed to be traced,
John Shepherd and George Jones were not to be identified, and though
Brisbane might accept wills easily, an English court of law required more
certainty. The little daughter being the only child and natural heiress,
this was not felt to be doing her any injury; but the decision deprived
her of the guardian her father had chosen, and Angela was in despair.
She was ready to write to the _Pursuivant_, to the Bishop of Albertstown,
to the Lord Chancellor, with an exposition of the wicked injustice and
hardness of heart of lawyers, and the inexpedience of taking the poor
child from her earliest motherly friend, expressly chosen by her father.
All Bernard’s common sense and Magdalen’s soothing were needed to make
her hold her peace, when correspondence made it plain that the
guardianship being assumed by the uncles, Captain Merrifield would not
hear for a moment of the scheme of taking the child out to Carrigaboola.
In his opinion, and his sister Susan’s, the only fit thing to be done
with her was to place her with the two aunts at Coalham to be educated.
He came down to Rock Quay to inspect her. It was a cold, raw day, with
the moors wrapped in mist, and the poor little maid looked small, peaky
and pinched. He was sure that the dry winds of the north were what she
needed, wanted to carry her off immediately, and looked regardless of
Angela’s opinion, though backed by Miss Prescott, that it would be highly
dangerous to take the delicate child of a semi-tropical climate off in
the depth of winter to a northerly town. Angela walked off to ask Dr.
Dagger to inspect the child and give his opinion, while Captain Sam
repaired to Clipstone to visit his relations and lunch with them.
He did not meet with all the sympathy he expected. Lady Merrifield said
that Coalham had not agreed with her own son Harry, and that little Lena
ought not to be taken there till after the cold winds of spring were
over; and her daughters all chimed in with a declaration that Angela
Underwood was perfectly devoted to the little one, and that no one else
could make her happy.
“Petting her! spoiling her!” scoffed the Captain. “Why, Susan and Bessie
were full of the contrast with your little girl.”
“Health,” began Phyllis.
“An Indian child too!” he went on. “Just showing what a little good
sense in the training can do! No, indeed! Since I am to be her
guardian, I have no notion of swerving from my duty, and letting poor
Hal’s child be bred up to Sisterhoods and all that flummery.”
“It will just break Angela’s heart,” cried Valetta, with tears in her
eyes, at which the Captain looked contemptuous.
“I must say,” added Bernard, “that I should think it little short of
murderous to take that unlucky child from the one woman who understands
her up into the bleak north at this time of year.”
“Decidedly!” added Sir Jasper. “Miss Underwood deserves every
consideration in dealing with the child who has been always her sole
charge.”
Wherewith he changed the conversation by a question about Stokesley; but
he held to his dictum when alone with his nephew, and as he was the only
person for whose opinion Captain Sam had any respect, it had its effect,
though there was a sense that he might be biassed by his son-in-law and
his herd of womanfolk, and that he did not partake Mrs. Samuel
Merrifield’s dislike to the very name of Sister or of anything not
commonplace.
Angela obtained Dr. Dagger’s opinion to reinforce her own and Lady
Merrifield’s, and the Captain was obliged to give way so far as to
consent to Magdalen, as he insisted on calling her, being allowed to
remain at Arnscombe till after Easter, when her aunts were to fetch her
to Coalham, there to send her to the kindergarten.
After Angela’s period of raging against law and lawyers and all the
Stokesley family, and being on the verge of impertinence to Captain
Merrifield, she submitted to the prospect more quietly than her friends
had dared to hope. Lance had almost expected her to deport her charge,
parrot and all, suddenly and secretly by an Australian liner, and had
advised Bernard, on a fleeting meeting at Bexley, to be on his guard if
she hinted at anything so preposterous; but Bernard shook his head, and
said Angel was more to be trusted than her elders thought. “Waves and
storms don’t go over us for nothing, I hope,” he said.
And he found himself right on his return. Angela had bowed her head to
the inevitable, and was quietly trying to prepare her little charge for
the change, accustoming her to more discipline and less petting. When
Angela proposed to walk over to Clipstone with her brother on his return,
and the whine was set up, “Let me go, Sister,” it was answered, “No, my
dear, it is too far for you. You must stay and walk with Paula.”
“I want to go with Sister.”
“You must be a good child, and do as Sister tells you. No, I can’t have
any fretting. Paula will show you how to drive your hoop. Keep her
moving fast, Paula, don’t let her fret and get cold.”
And Angela actually detached the clinging hand, and put it into
Paulina’s, and, holding up her finger, silenced the burst of weeping,
though tears sprang to her own eyes as she resolutely turned away, and,
after running out and shutting the back gate after her, put her arm with
a clinging gesture into Bernard’s.
“That’s right!” he said, pressing her hand.
“Cruel,” she said, “but better by and by for her. Oh, Bear, if one could
but learn to lie still and say, ‘Thou didst it,’ when it is human agency
that takes away the desire of one’s eyes with a stroke.”
“The desire of thine eyes!” repeated Bernard. “How often I thought of
that last February.”
It was the only time he had referred to the loss of his little boy. His
wife had told her mother that he could not bear to mention it, and had
poured out all her own feelings of sorrow and her struggle for
cheerfulness and resignation alone with her or with Mysie; but he had
shrunk from the least allusion to the little two year old Felix, who
slept beneath a palm tree at Colombo.
Now, however, still holding his sister’s hand, he drifted into all the
particulars of the little ways, the baby language, the dawning
understanding, and the very sudden sharp illness carrying the beautiful
boy away almost before they were aware of danger; and he took out the
photograph from his breast, and showed her the little face, so recalling
old fond remembrances. “Forbear to cry, make no mourning for the dead,”
he repeated. “Yes, the boy is saved the wear and tear and heat and
burthen of the day, but it is very hard to be thankful.”
“Ah, and it is all the harder if you have to leave your Lily.”
“If—yes; but Travis _may_ so arrange that we can stay, or I make only one
voyage out to settle matters and then come home for good. If you are
still bent on Carrigaboola you might come as far as Frisco with me. I
may have to go there about the Californian affairs.”
“That would be jolly. Yes, I think it will clench the matter, for I
believe I am of more good at Carriga than anywhere else, though the heart
of it is taken out of it for me; but one lives on and gets on somehow
without a heart, or a heart set where I suppose it ought not to be
entirely at least! And, indeed, I think that little one taught me better
than ever before how to love.”
“That’s what the creatures are sent us for,” said Bernard, in a low
voice. “And here are, looming in the distance, all the posse of girls to
meet us.”
“Ah-h!” breathed Angela, withdrawing her arm. “Well, Bear, you have
given me something to look forward to, whether it comes to anything or
not. It will help me to be thankful. I know they are good people, and
the child will do well when once the pining and bracing are over. They
are her own people, and it is right.”
“Right you are, Angel!” said Bernard, with a fresh squeeze of the hand,
as he resumed his own cheerful, resolute voice ere joining his
sisters-in-law.
“What! Angela without her satellite!” cried Primrose.
“Too far,” murmured Angela; but Mysie tried to hush her sister,
perceiving the weaning process, and respecting Angela for it.
And the next moment Angela was challenging Bernard to a game at golf.