TWILIGHT AND DAWN.
'Two Angels, one of Life and one of Death,
Passed o'er the village as the morning broke;
The dawn was on their faces; and beneath
The sombre houses capped with plumes of smoke.'
_Longfellow._
'Don't, Ful!'
'That's nothing to you, Clem.'
'I say, this won't do. I must have some light.'
'Indeed, Ed, we must not light a candle before five o'clock.'
'Pish!'
'Oh please, Edgar, don't stir the fire. If you knew how few coals there
are!'
'Stuff!'
'No, I won't have it done if Wilmet says not;' and Felix reared up in
the gloom, and struggled with his brother.
'Felix--Edgar--Oh, don't.'
'Hsh--sh-- Now you girls are worse than all, screaming in that way.'
A few moments' silence of shame. It had been a weary, long, wet day,
a trial under any circumstances to eleven people under seventeen, on
the 4th of January, and the more oppressive in St. Oswald's Buildings,
because not only had their father been in a much more suffering state
for some days past, but their mother, who had hoped to keep up for some
weeks longer, had for the last two days been quite unlike herself. In
the sick-room she was as tender and vigilant as ever in her silent
way, but towards her children a strange fretful impatience had set in,
almost a jealousy of their coming near their father, and an intolerance
of the least interruption from them even for the most necessary cause.
Moreover, the one friend and helper who had never failed them before,
Mr. Audley, had not been seen since he had looked in before early
service; and altogether the wretchedness and perplexity of that day
had been such, that it was no wonder that even Felix and Wilmet had
scarcely spirits or temper for the only task that seemed at present
left them, the hindering their juniors from making themselves obnoxious.
'Wilmet, do you think we shall go to the party at Centry Park?'
reiterated Fulbert.
'Do hold your tongue about that. I don't believe there's the least
chance,' said Alda fretfully.
'And I don't know how you can think of such a thing,' added Cherry.
'I want to see Cousin Marilda's Christmas tree,' whined Robina.
'Do ask Mamma again,' entreated another voice.
'I shall do no such thing,' said Wilmet, with absolute crossness in her
tone.
Robina began to cry.
'Come here, Bobbie,' said Cherry's voice in the dark end of the room;
'I'll tell you a story.'
'I know all Cherry's stories, and they're rubbish,' said Fulbert.
'This is quite a new one. There was once a little match-girl--'
'Bosh! I know that little brute, and I hate her,' broke in Fulbert.
'Hold your tongue,' said Clement; 'but--'
'Oh no, don't let us have the match-girl,' cried several voices.
'Why can't you be good? There was once an old giant that lived in a
cave--'
'I hate old giants,' said Cherry's critical public; and her voice grew
melancholy.
'But this one had but one eye. Come, _do_ listen; papa told me. He was
in an island--' but the voice grew mournful, and was broken by a cry.
'Oh! Fulbert hurt me!'
'Fulbert, for shame! What is it, Angel dear?'
'I only laid hold of her pudding arm,' growled Fulbert. 'Oh! I say,
Felix, that's too bad!'
'Hold your row, I say,' said Felix, after his application of fist law.
'Hollo! what's that?' and he sprang to his feet with Angela in his
arms, as the door was opened by a hand groping, and Mr. Audley's voice
said, 'Darkness visible.'
There was a general scrambling up all over the floor, and Edgar rushed
across to light a candle. Wilmet alone had not stirred, as Bernard lay
asleep across her lap. The flash of the match revealed a mass of light
disordered heads, and likewise a black figure in the door-way.
'Here is a kind helper for you, Wilmet,' said Mr. Audley, 'from St.
Faith's, at Dearport. You must call her Sister Constance.'
Wilmet did rise now, in some consternation, lifting her little brother,
whose hand was still in the locks, the tangling of which had been his
solace. There was a sweet warm kiss on her brow, and her lost net was
picked up, her hair coiled into it by a pair of ready tender hands, but
she faltered, 'Oh, thank you. Does Mamma know?'
'She was there when I got a sort of consent from your father,' said Mr.
Audley.
'She has not said a word,' said Alda, half resentfully. 'We have hardly
been in all day except just to fetch and carry.'
'Never mind,' said the Sister, 'it is much better that she did not
think about it. Now, my dear, don't! I won't have anything done for me.
You don't know how we Sisters sleep on nothing when we do sleep.'
'But you'll have some tea,' said Alda, the only smooth-haired one of
the party.
'When you do, perhaps, thank you. Will you come to me, my dear?'
relieving Felix from Angela. 'What is your name?' and the child, though
ordinarily very shy, clung to her at once; while she, moving over to
Cherry, found her in tears, shook up her cushion, arranged her rug,
and made her comfortable in a moment. A sense came over them all that
they had among them a head on whom they might rest their cares; and as
the black bonnet and veil were taken off, and they saw a sweet fair
motherly face beaming on them from the white plain-bordered cap, they
gathered round with an outpouring of confidence, small and great, while
Mr. Audley went upstairs to announce what he had done. He presently
returned, saying, 'All right! Perhaps you had better come up at once.'
There they sat, on either side of the hearth, he pillowed up and in a
dressing-gown, more entirely the sick man than he had ever before given
up himself to be. Mrs. Underwood rose, and with tears in her eyes,
mutely held out her hand, while her husband at once recognised Sister
Constance as Lady Herbert Somerville, the wife of the late rector of
Dearport. He had last met her when, some six or seven years before,
he had been invited to preach at festivals at Dearport, and had seen
her the sunbeam of her house. He knew that her husband, who was a
connection of Mr. Audley's, had since died of the same malady as his
own, and had left her, a childless widow, together with all else he had
to leave, to the Sisterhood they had already founded in the seaport
town. But his greeting was, 'This is _very_ good in you; but surely it
must be too painful for you.'
'The Superior saw how much I wished it,' she said.
'You are like Alexandrine de la Ferronays,' he said, remembering her
love for tending a consumptive priest for her husband's sake.
'I am always wishing that I were!' she said.
So they perfectly understood each other; and poor Mrs. Underwood, who
had, in her new and extraordinary petulance, fiercely resisted the
doctor's recommendation of a nurse, found herself implicitly relying
on and trusting Sister Constance with a wonderful sense of relief--a
relief perhaps still greater to the patient himself, who had silently
endured more discomforts, and made more exertions than she knew, rather
than tire her or vex her by employing even son or daughter, and who was
besides set free from some amount of anxiety.
Indeed the widow had too perfect a sympathy to interfere with the
wife's only comfort. When it could safely be done, she left the two
alone together, and applied herself to winning the hearts and soothing
the spirits of the poor children downstairs, and suggesting and
compounding new nourishing delicacies.
She even persuaded Mrs. Underwood to go to the next room for a night's
rest while she sat up, and learnt--what the silent wife had never told
any one--how trying the nights were even to that spirit! At first the
patient liked to talk, and drew out much of the hidden treasure of
her spirit respecting her husband, who, though ailing for years, had
finally passed away with only the immediate warning of a week--the
final cause being harass from the difficulties from those above and
below him that beset an earnest clergyman of his way of thinking.
What struck her, as it did all, was Mr. Underwood's perfect absence of
all care, and conviction that all the burthen was taken off his hands.
Her own husband had, as she could not help telling him, found it hard
to resign himself to leaving his plans half carried out to instruments
which he had but half formed. He had wished with all his might to
live, and though he had resigned himself dutifully, it had been with a
real struggle, and a longing for continued service rather than rest,
a hope that he should more efficiently serve, and much difficulty in
refraining from laying all about him under injunctions for the future.
Mr. Underwood half smiled. 'I am neither head nor principal,' he said.
'Plans have been over long ago. I am only tired out, too tired to think
about what is to follow. If I live three days longer I shall have just
had my forty years in the wilderness, and though it has blossomed like
a rose, I am glad to be near the rest.'
And then he asked for the Midnight Office; and afterwards came
fitful sleep, half dreamy, half broken by the wanderings of slight
feverishness and great weakness; but she thought her attendance would
not be very brief, and agreed mentally with what Mr. Audley had
told her, that the doctor said that the end might yet be many weeks
away. When in the dark winter's morning the wife crept back again to
her post, and all that could be done in those early hours had been
effected, Sister Constance went to the half-past seven o'clock service
with Felix and Clement, imparting to them on the road that the Superior
of St. Faith's was expecting to receive some of the least of the
children in the course of the day, to remain there for the present.
Both boys declared it would be an infinite relief, but they doubted
exceedingly whether either father or mother would consent to lose sight
of them, since the former never failed to see each child, and give it
a smile and kiss, if no more. If they were to be sent, Felix supposed
there was no one but himself to take them; nobody with whom they would
be happy could be spared, nor did he show any repugnance to the notion
of acting _père de famille_ to three babies on the railway.
It was quickly settled. Mr. Underwood at once confessed the exceeding
kindness, and declared it to be much better for everybody. 'Do you not
feel it so, Mother?'
She bent her head in assent, as she did to all he said.
'Having them back will be good for you,' he added persuasively;
and again she tried to give a look of response. So they were
brought--Robina, Angela, and Bernard--and each stood for a moment on
a chair at his bed-side. The two little ones he merely kissed and
blessed; but to Robina he said a few more words about being good, and
minding Mamma and Felix.
'Oh yes, papa! And they'll have a Christmas tree! and I'll save all my
bon-bons to make your cough well.'
He watched wistfully as the bright heads passed out of sight, and the
long struggling cough and gasping that followed had all the pangs of
parting to add to their burthen. Half the family escorted Felix and his
charge to the station; and in the quiet that followed, Sister Constance
had a good sleep on Wilmet's bed, as much, she said, as she ever
required; and she came from it all freshness and brightness, making the
dinner-time very charming to all the diminished party, though Wilmet
felt greatly lost without the little ones; and afterwards she earned
the warmest gratitude from Edgar and Geraldine by looking over their
drawings and giving them some valuable hints--nay, she even devised
the new and delightful occupation of ship-building for those three
inconvenient subjects, Clement, Fulbert, and Lancelot. Upstairs or
down, all was gentle cheerfulness and patience wherever she went.
Felix came home about five o'clock, and his mother was persuaded
to go to lie down while he amused his father with the account of
the children's exemplary behaviour, and of their kind welcome at
St. Faith's, where he had been kept to dine, feeling, as he said,
'uncommonly queer' at first, but at last deciding, to the great
diversion of his father, that the sisters were a set of jolly old
girls, but not one equal to '_our_ Sister Constance.' Then he had
seen the church, and was almost bewildered with the beauty of the
decorations; and Mr. Underwood, though saying little, evidently much
enjoyed his boy's refreshment and pleasure. He certainly seemed no
worse, and Mr. Audley was allowed, what he had often asked before, to
sit up with him.
But there was much to render it a long, anxious, restless night of
a sort of semi-consciousness, and murmuring talk, as if he fancied
himself at Vale Leston again. However, when Felix crept in, about four
o'clock in the morning, anxious at the sounds he heard, he found him
asleep, and this lasted for two or three hours; he woke refreshed, and
presently said, 'Epiphany! put back the curtain, that I may see the
bright and morning star.'
The morning star was shining in the delicate dawn full in view, and he
looked at it with quiet pleasure. 'Mother,' he said, then recollecting
himself; 'ah, she is resting! Thank you, Audley.'
At that moment a little cry through the thin wall made him start and
flush.
'Is it so?' he murmured; 'thank God! That is well!' But his chest
heaved grievously as he panted with anxiety, and his two watchers
hesitated what to do, until the door was slightly opened, and before
the intended sign could be made to Felix, the breathless exclamation,
'How? what?' brought Sibby's half-scared mournful countenance forward.
'How is she, Sibby? don't fear to say,' he said, more collectedly.
'Nicely, sir, as well as can be expected; but--'
'The baby? Alive--I heard--'
'Yes, sir; that is--O Sir, it is two; and it would be a mere mercy if
they are taken, as they look like to be--twins, and coming like this!'
Perhaps Sibby was a little more lamentable, because, instead of looking
shocked, he clasped his hands in eager thanksgiving, as he looked
upwards.
Sister Constance followed at the same moment, saying in a far more
encouraging voice, 'She is doing very well.'
'It is another great mercy,' he said. 'Much better than longer waiting
on me. Will these Twelfth-day gifts live? Or do I take them with me? At
least, let me baptize them--now at once,' he spoke earnestly. 'My full
twelve, and one over, and on Twelfth-day.'
Sister Constance had better hopes of the babes than Sibby, but this
wish of his was one not to be withstood for a moment; and she went to
make ready, while Mr. Audley went down for the little Parian font,
and Felix and Sibby arranged the pillows and coverings. Mr. Underwood
looked very bright and thankful. 'Birth-day gifts,' he said, 'what are
they? You have not told me, Sibby.'
'Boy and girl, sir,' she said, 'poor little dears!'
'Jealous for your old twins, Sibby?' he said, smiling.
'Ah! sir, they came in a better time.'
'Better for them, no doubt; but this is the best for these,' he
answered brightly. 'See, Sibby, can't you be thankful, like me, that
your mistress is sheltered from what would try her? I can bear it all
better without her to see.'
Sibby's only reply was a gush of tears, and presently all was made
ready; Geraldine was quietly helped into the room by Edgar, and placed
in her usual station by the pillow, and the boys stood against the
wall, while the two babes, tiny and scarcely animate things, were
carried, each by one of the elder pair; and the father, as whitely
robed as if he had been in his surplice, held out his hands, and smiled
with his kindly lips and clear shining blue eyes full of welcome.
'Has your mother any wishes about names?' he asked. 'Wilmet--what--?'
'No, Papa, I think not;' but her eyes were brimming over with tears,
and it was plain that something was suppressed.
'My dear, let me hear; I am not to be hurt by such things.'
'It is--it is only--she did say, when we came for them, that we were
the children of joy--these are the children of sorrow,' murmured
Wilmet, uttering the words with difficulty.
'I thought so,' he said; then after a brief pause, 'Now, Audley--'
For Mr. Audley said all the previous prayers, though with a voice as
hard to control as Wilmet's had been. Then Wilmet held her charge close
to her father, for, almost inappreciable as the weight was, he could
only venture to lay one arm round that grasshopper burthen, as with his
long thin fingers he dashed the water. 'Theodore Benjamin, I baptize
thee.' Alda brought the other. 'Stella Eudora.' Then the two hands were
folded over his face, and they all knelt round till he moved and smiled.
'Give them to me again,' he said.
It was for the father's kiss and blessing now.
'They look life-like,' he said. 'You will keep them. Now mind me.
Charge _her_ never to think of them as children of sorrow, but of joy.
She will remember how nearly you were called Theodore, Felix. Take him
as God's gift and mine--may he be a son of your right hand to you.'
The boy did take the babe, and with a deep resolve in his heart, that
his duty to these helpless ones should be his first thought on earth.
He did not speak it, but his father saw the steadfast wistful gaze, and
it was enough.
Alda ventured to ask, 'Is Eudora a gift too, Papa?'
'Yes. A happy gift. For so she is! Let her be a little Epiphany Star to
you all! Tell Mother that I call them a double joy, a double comfort!
Poor little maid!' and he kissed her again, 'will no one welcome her,
but the father who is leaving her?'
'O Papa! You know how we will love them,' sobbed Wilmet.
'I think I do, my dear;' and he smoothed the glossy hair; 'but with
love comes joy, you know.'
'It is very hard now,' broke from the poor girl.
'Very,' he said tenderly; 'but it will if you make the burthen a
blessing--the cross a crutch--eh, my Cherry? Now, a kiss each, and go,
I am tired.'
He was tired, but not apparently worse.
Edgar and his three juniors started off directly after church in quest
of ice where they might behold skating, and practise sliding; and
Wilmet, with a view to quiet, actually ventured on the extravagance of
providing them with a shilling, that they might forage for themselves,
instead of coming home to dinner.
She regretted Edgar's absence, however, for when Mr. Bevan came in to
hold the Epiphany Feast in the sick chamber, her father asked for Edgar
and Geraldine, and looked disappointed that the boy was gone. But he
murmured, 'Maybe it is best!' and when the little girl came in, flushed
and awe-struck, he took her hand, and said, 'May not I have this little
one--my last pupil--to share the feast with me? Willing and desirous,'
he smiled as he held her, and she coloured intensely, with tears in her
eyes.
There could be no denial, and his judgment at such a moment could only
be accepted by the Rector; and the child herself durst not say one word
of her alarm and awe. Papa knew. And never could she forget that he
held her hand all the time that she leant--for she could not kneel--by
his bed. Her elder brother and sisters were there too, and he kissed
and blessed each tenderly afterwards, and Sister Constance too knelt
and asked his blessing. Then he thanked Mr. Bevan warmly, and called it
a most true day of brightness. They heard him whispering to himself,
'Arise, shine, for thy Light is come;' and the peaceful enjoyment
seemed so to soothe him, that he was not, as usual, eager to get up.
It was only towards the early dusk that a restlessness came on, and an
increase of the distress and oppression of breath, which he thought
might be more bearable in his chair; and Mr. Audley, who had just come
in, began with Felix to dress him, and prepare to move him. But just as
they were helping him towards the chair, there was a sort of choke, a
gasping struggle, his head fell on Felix's shoulder, the boy in terror
managed to stretch out a hand and rang the bell; but in that second
felt that there was a strange convulsive shudder, and--
'Felix!' Mr. Audley's low voice sounded strange and far away. 'I do
believe--'
The figure was entirely prone as they lifted it back to the bed. They
needed not the exclamation of Sibby to reveal the truth. It _was_ only
an exclamation, it would have been a shriek if Felix had not grasped
her wrist with a peremptory grasp. But that bell had been enough; there
had been a sound of dismay in the very tinkle, and Sister Constance was
in the doorway.
'Felix,' she said, understanding all, 'you must go to her. She
heard--she is calling you. You cannot conceal it; be as quick and quiet
as you can,' she added, as the stunned boy went past her, only hearing,
and that as through a tempest, the feeble voice calling his name. He
stood by the bed-side; his mother looked into his white face, and held
out her hands; then as he bent down, clasped both round his neck. 'He
trusted you,' she said.
He sank on his knees as she relaxed her grasp, and hid her head beneath
the clothes. A few holy words of commendation of the soul departed
sounded from the other room; then at Sister Constance's touch of his
hand, he quitted the room.
Presently after, Felix was sitting in the large arm-chair in the
dining-room, with his sister Geraldine on his lap, his arms round her,
her arms tightly clasped round his neck, her hair hanging loosely
down over his shoulder, her head against him, his face over her, as
he rocked himself backwards and forwards with her, each straining the
other closer, as though the mechanical action and motion could allay
the pain. The table was all over baby-things, which numerous neighbours
had sent in on the first news of the twins that morning, and which
the girls had been inspecting; but no one--nothing else was to be
seen--when Mr. Thomas Underwood, on his way from the station, finding
his knock unheard, and the door ajar, found his way to the room.
'What is this? How is your father?'
Felix raised his face, still deeply flushed, and rising, placed his
sister in the chair.
'What, worse! You don't say so,' said Mr. Underwood, advancing.
'He is gone!' said Felix, steadily, but in an unnatural voice. 'Quite
suddenly. Not very long ago,' he began, but he felt unable to guess for
what space of time he had been rocking Cherry there.
'Dead! Edward Underwood! Bless me!' said Mr. Underwood, taking off his
hat, passing his hand over his forehead, and standing horror-struck. 'I
had no idea! You never sent over to say he was worse.'
'He was not; it came on just now,' said Felix, holding by the
mantelpiece.
He groaned. 'Poor Edward! Well,' and he was forced to put his
handkerchief to his eyes. He spoke more gently after that. 'Well, this
is a sudden thing, but better than lingering on. Your poor mother,
would she like to see me?'
'She was confined last night.'
'Bless me! bless me! What a state of things! Have you got any one to be
with you?'
'Yes; a lady from Dearport,' said Felix.
'Humph. Which are you? not _my_ boy?'
'No, I am Felix. Oh, poor Edgar!' he added, still bewildered.
And it was at this moment that trampling steps were heard, making Felix
spring forward with an instinct to silence them; but at the threshold
the sight of his face brought conviction to Edgar; and with a loud
uncontrollable cry, tired and hungry as he was, he seemed to collapse
into his brother's arms, and fainted away.
'_My_ poor boy!' exclaimed his cousin, coming to Felix's help, and
himself lifting Edgar to the sofa. Of the other boys, Clement ran for
water, Fulbert rushed out of sight, and Lancelot laid his head on a
chair choking with tears.
Felix and Clement were, poor children! used enough to illness to
attend to their brother with a collectedness that amazed their cousin;
and without calling for help, Edgar came shuddering and trembling
to himself, and then burst into silent but agonising sobs, very
painful to witness. He was always--boy as he was--the most easily
and entirely overthrown by anything that affected him strongly; and
Mr. Thomas Underwood was so much struck and touched by his exceeding
grief, especially now that he looked on him as his own property, that
after putting in some disjointed sentences of 'There--there--You'll
always have a father in me--Don't, my boy--I tell you, you are my son
now,'--which to Felix's mind made it more intolerable, he said, 'I'll
take him home now--it will be all the better for him and for every one,
poor lad! So many--'
'The three younger ones were sent to Dearport yesterday,' said Felix;
'but Edgar--'
'To Dearport! Eh! To whom?'
'The Sisters,' said Felix.
A gruff sound followed. 'Come, come, my dear lad, 'tis bad enough, but
I'll do my best to make up to you. It will be much the best way for
you to come out of this,' he added, glancing round the dreary fireless
room, which his entrance had reminded Felix to darken.
'Thank you,' began Felix, not in the least supposing Edgar could go;
'but now--'
'It is not like a stranger,' added his relation. 'Be a sensible lad.
One out of the way is something under the circumstances. Stay--whom can
I see? I will give orders for you,' he added.
'Mr. Audley and Sister Constance are seeing about things, thank you,'
said Felix. 'I'll fetch Mr. Audley,' he added, as another trying grunt
at the other name fell on his ear, and he put his arm round Geraldine,
and helped her away.
Mr. Audley came, having just parted with the doctor, who had explained
the sudden termination as what he had of late not thought improbable,
and further shown that it had been most merciful, since there might
otherwise have been weeks, if not months, of much severer suffering. He
had just looked in at the wife, but she had hardly noticed him, and he
saw no dangerous symptoms about her, except an almost torpid calmness.
Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Mr. Bevan, and made it clearly understood that
he made himself responsible for all expenses, including mourning for
the whole family. He even offered to have the funeral at Vale Leston,
'if it were only to shame Fulbert Underwood;' but the wife was in no
state to be asked, and the children shrank from the removal, so it was
decided that Edward Underwood should sleep among those for whom he had
spent his life, and where his children's lot for the present would be
cast.
The cousin carried Edgar back to Centry with him; the boy seemed too
unhappy not to be restless, and as if he were ready to do anything to
leave his misery behind him.
The others remained with their preparations, and with such consolation
as the exceeding sympathy and kindness of the whole town could afford
them. Their mother remained in the same state, except when roused by
an effort; and then there was an attention and presence of mind about
her that gave anxiety lest excitement should be bringing feverishness;
but she always fell back into her usual state of silence, such that it
could be hardly told whether it were torpid or not.
They looked out that half-finished comment on the Epistle to the
Philippians. It stopped at the words--'Yea, and if I be offered upon
the sacrifice and service of your faith, I joy, and rejoice with you
all.'
Mr. Audley took those words for his text on the Sunday, and, not
without breaking down more than once, read as much of the comment as
there was time for, as the happy-hearted message of the late pastor,
for whom indeed there were many tears shed. It seemed to suit with
that solemn peace and nobleness that seemed like the 'likeness of the
Resurrection face,' bringing back all the beauty of his countenance as
he lay robed in his surplice, with a thorny but bright-fruited cross of
holly on his breast, when his children looked their last, ere parting
with what remained of that loved and loving father.
Poor little Geraldine spent that worst hour of her life sitting by her
mother's bed. She had been helped by Felix to that Feast which had been
spread for the mourners in the church in early morning; but afterwards
she was forced to remain at home, while the white-robed choir, the
brother clergy of all the neighbourhood, and the greater part of the
parish met their pastor for the last time in the church.
There the first part of the service took place; and then--Cherry could
just fancy she could hear the dim echo of the _Dies Iræ_, as it was
sung on the way to the cemetery. It was a very aching heart, poor
child! full of the dull agony of a longing that she knew could never be
satisfied again, the intense craving for her father.
She missed him more really than any of them, she had been so much his
companion; and she was the more solitary from the absence of Edgar,
who had always been her chief partner in her pursuits. His departure
had seemed like a defection; and yet she had reproached herself for so
feeling it when he had run upstairs, on arriving with Mr. Underwood,
looking paler, more scared and miserable, than any of them; and he
was sobbing so much when he took his place in the procession, that
Wilmet had made Felix take Alda, that she might support him. None of
his mother's steady reserve and resolute stillness had descended to
him, he was all sensibility and nervousness; and Geraldine, though
without saying this to herself, felt as if 'poor Edgar' might really
have been nearly killed by the last few days of sadness, he could bear
depression so little. She could hardly have gone through them but for
Sister Constance's kindness, and that rocking process from Felix,
which she and he called 'being his great baby.' And now, when her
mother looked up at her, held out a hand, and called her Papa's dear
little Cherry, drawing her to lay her cheek by hers on the pillow,
there was much soothing in it, though therewith the little girl felt
a painful doubt and longing to know whether her mother knew what was
passing; and even while perfectly aware that she must not be talked to
nor disturbed, was half grieved, half angry, at her dropping off into
a slumber, and awakening only upon little Stella's behalf. Those few
words to Geraldine had been the only sign that day of perception of any
existence in the world save that of the twins.
So the time went by, and the little bustle of return was heard; Sister
Constance came in, kissed Geraldine, and helped her down that she might
be with Edgar, who was to return with the cousin, whispering to her
by the way that it had been very beautiful. It was a day of bright
sunshine, high wind, and scant sparkling feathery stars of snow, that
sat for a moment shining in their pure perfectness of regularity on the
black, and then vanished. 'So like himself,' Sister Constance said.
Geraldine found her four elders and the three little boys all together
in the dining-room; and while Wilmet anxiously asked after Mother,
the others, in a sort of sad elation, told of the crowds present,
the number of clergy--Mr. Ryder, too, came home from his holiday on
purpose--the sobbing people, and the wreaths of camellias and of holly,
that loving hands had made, and laid upon the coffin. And then the last
hymn had been so sweet and beautiful, they all seemed refreshed and
comforted except Edgar, who, coming fresh back to the desolation of the
house, was in another paroxysm of grief.
'But, Edgar,' said Alda timidly, 'you like being there, don't you?'
'As if one could like anything now!'
'Well! but, Eddy dear, you know what I mean. It is not bad being there.'
'Not so bad as being at home. Oh!' and a terrible fit of sobbing came
on, which made the other children stand round rather appalled; while
Felix, hesitating, said,
'It is no good going on in this way, Edgar. Father would say it was not
right; and you are upsetting poor little Cherry.'
'It is worse for him, because he has been away,' said Cherry, fondling
him.
'Yes,' said Edgar between his sobs 'It did not seem _so_ there.'
'And are they kind?'
'Oh, yes. Marilda let me sit in the school-room, and I had books,
and things to copy; such an angel, Cherry, I'll bring it to you next
time--my copy, I mean.'
Here there was a summons from the other room for Felix.
'Yes,' said Edgar, a good deal re-invigorated by having something
to tell; 'I suppose they are going to tell him what is settled. Mr.
Underwood wrote to the man at Vale Leston, and he won't do anything for
us; but they are going to try for the Clergy Orphan for one of you two
little boys.'
'Oh!' there was a great gasp.
'And about me?' asked Alda.
'You are to come when we all go to London--to meet us at the station.
There's a new governess coming, and you will start both together with
her; and I think you'll beat Marilda, for she knows nothing, and won't
learn.'
'I hope she won't be jealous.'
'I don't think it is in her! She's very jolly.'
'But I can't go till Mamma is better.'
Wilmet felt they were falling into a gossiping kind of way that jarred
on her, and was glad of a summons upstairs.
Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Alda before he returned home, told her she was
his other daughter, and should join them on their way to London; and he
further made arrangements about the christening, contingent, of course,
on the mother's consent, and on the possibility of taking the very
small delicate babies to the church. He made very extensive promises of
patronage for the future, with a full and open heart, and looked as if
he should like to adopt the whole family on the spot.
For the convenience of our readers we subjoin the first page of
the family Bible.
Edward Fulbert Underwood married August 1st, 1837--Mary Wilmet
Underwood.
Felix Chester . . . born, July 3rd, 1838.
Wilmet Ursula }
Alda Mary }. . . " Aug. 11th, 1839.
Thomas Edgar. . . . " Oct. 6th, 1840.
Geraldine. . . . . " Oct. 25th, 1841.
Edward Clement . . . " Nov. 23rd, 1842.
Fulbert James . . . " Jan. 9th, 1844.
Lancelot Oswald. . . " May 16th, 1846.
Robina Elizabeth . . " Feb. 20th, 1848.
Angela Margaret. . . " Sept. 29th, 1851.
Bernard . . . . . " Dec. 1st, 1852.
Stella Eudora }
Theodore Benjamin}. . " Jan. 6th, 1854.