THE THIRTEEN.
'They closed around the fire,
And all in turn essayed to paint
The rival merits of their saint;
A theme that ne'er can tire
A holy maid, for be it known
That their saint's honour is their own.'
_Scott._
The thirteen Underwoods did not meet again in the same house for many
a long day, and when they did, it was on a grey misty morning in the
Christmas week of the year following; and the blinds were down, and
the notes of the knell clashing out overhead, as the door was opened
to Edgar, Alda, and Clement, as they arrived together, having been
summoned late on the previous night by a telegram with tidings that
their mother had been struck by a paralysis. They knew what to expect
when Felix, with one of the little ones on his arm, came quietly down
the stairs and admitted them. All they had to ask, was 'when,' and
'how;' and to hear, that the long living death had ended in peaceful
insensibility at last. Then they followed him upstairs to the room
where the others sat, hushed, over their pen or their books, where
Wilmet, her eyes gushing with quiet tears, held Alda in her embrace,
and Geraldine, after her first eager kiss, gazed wistfully at Edgar as
though there must be comfort in the very sight of him, if she could
only feel it; while the very little ones opened their puzzled eyes on
the new-comers as strangers.
And so they were: Clement had indeed been at home in September, but
Alda not for a year and three-quarters, nor Edgar since he first left
it three years before. The absence of the two latter was not by their
own choice; a doctor who had ordered Mrs. Thomas Underwood to spend
the summer months, year after year, at Spa was partly the cause; and
moreover, during the autumn and winter of 1856 Bexley had been a
perfect field of epidemics. Measles and whooping-cough had run riot in
the schools, and lingered in the streets and alleys of the potteries,
fastening on many who thought themselves secured by former attacks;
and there had been a good many deaths, in especial Clement's chief
friend, Harry Lamb. Nobody, excepting the invalid mother, throughout
the Underwood household, had escaped one or other disorder; and both
fell to the lot of the four little ones, and likewise of Mr. Audley,
who was infinitely disgusted at himself, and at the guarded childhood
for which he thus paid the penalty pretty severely. When matters
were at the worst, and Felix was laid up, and Wilmet found herself
succumbing, she had written in desperation to Sister Constance, whose
presence in the house had made the next three weeks a time of very
pleasant recollections. Finally she had carried off Geraldine, Angela,
and Bernard, to the convalescent rooms at St. Faith's, where their
happiness had been such that the favourite sport of the little ones
had ever since been the acting of Sisters of Mercy nursing sick dolls.
The quarantine had been indefinitely prolonged for the protégés of
Kensington Palace Gardens; for the three at school, though kept away
till all infection was thought to be over, had perversely caught the
maladies as soon as they came home for the summer holidays; and indeed
the whole town and neighbouring villages were so full of contagion,
that Mrs. Thomas Underwood had not far to seek for a plea for avoiding
Centry.
All this time, from day to day, the poor mother had been growing more
feeble, and it had been fully purposed that on Edgar's return at
Christmas, on the completion of his studies at Louvaine, he and Alda
should make some stay at home; but the brother and sister were both
so useful and ornamental that their adopted home could not spare them
until after a series of Christmas entertainments; and Clement had been
in like manner detained until the festival services at St. Matthew's no
longer required him. Indeed, when he had been at home in the autumn, he
had been scarcely recognized.
For the last week, however, Mrs. Underwood had been much clearer in
mind, had enjoyed the presence of her holiday children, and had for a
short time even given hopes that her constitution might yet rally, and
her dormant faculties revive. She had even talked to Mr. Audley and
Geraldine at different times as though she had some such presentiment
herself, and had made some exertions which proved much increased
activity of brain. Alas! though their coming had thus been rendered
very happy, the brightening had been but the symptom and precursor of
a sudden attack of paralysis, whence there was no symptom of recovery,
and which in a few hours ended in death.
For the present, the hopes that had been entertained gave poignancy
to the sudden disappointment and grief, and the home children could
not acquiesce in the dispensation with the same quiet reasonableness
as those who had been so long separated from them as not to miss
the gentle countenance, or the 'sweet toils, sweet cares, for ever
gone.' Indeed Wilmet was physically much exhausted by her long hours
of anxiety, and went about pale-cheeked and tear-stained, quietly
attending to all that was needful, but with the tears continually
dropping; while Geraldine was fit for nothing but to lie still, unable
to think, but feeling soothed as long as she could lay her hand upon
Edgar and feel that he was near.
So the whole thirteen were together again; and in the hush of the
orphaned house there was a certain wonder and curiosity in their mutual
examination and comparison with one another and with the beings with
whom they had parted three years ago, at the period of their first
separation. All were at a time of life when such an interval could
not fail to make a vast alteration in externals. Even Geraldine had
gained in strength, and though still white, and with features too
large for her face, startlingly searching grey eyes, and brows that
looked strangely thick, dark, and straight, in contrast with the
pencilled arches belonging to all the rest, she was less weird and
elfin-like than when she had been three inches shorter, and dressed
more childishly. As Edgar said, she was less Riquet with a tuft than
the good fairy godmother, and her twin sisters might have been her
princess-wards, so far did they tower above her--straight as fir-trees,
oval faced, regular featured, fair skinned, blue eyed, and bright
haired. During those long dreary hours, Edgar often beguiled the
time with sketches of them, and the outlines--whether of chiselled
profiles, shapely heads, or Cupid's-bow lips--were still almost exactly
similar; yet it had become impossible to mistake one twin for the
other, even when Alda had dressed the tresses on Wilmet's passive head
in perfect conformity with her own. Looking at their figures, Alda's
air of fashion made her appear the eldest, and Wilmet might have been
a girl in the school-room; but comparing their faces, Wilmet's placid
recollected countenance, and the soberness that sat so well on her
white smooth forehead and steady blue eyes, might have befitted many
more years than eighteen. There were not nearly so many lights and
shades in her looks as in those of Alda and Geraldine. The one had both
more smiles and more frowns, the other more gleams of joy and of pain;
each was more animated and sensitive, but neither gave the same sense
of confidence and repose.
As usually happens when the parents are of the same family, the
inventory of the features of one of the progeny served for almost all
the rest. The differences were only in degree, and the prime specimens
were without doubt the two elder twins and Edgar, with like promise of
little Bernard and Stella.
Edgar had grown very tall, and had inherited his father's advantages
of grace and elegance of figure, to which was added a certain
distinguished ease of carriage, and ready graciousness, too simple
to be called either conceit or presumption, but which looked as if
he were used to be admired and to confer favours. Athletics had been
the fashion with him and his English companions, and his complexion
was embrowned by sun and wind, his form upright and vigorous; and
by force of contrast it was now perceived that Felix seemed to have
almost ceased growing for the last three years, and that his in-door
occupations had given his broad square shoulders a kind of slouch,
and kept his colouring as pink and white as that of his sisters. Like
Wilmet, he had something staid and responsible about him, that, even
more than his fringe of light brown whiskers, gave the appearance of
full-grown manhood; so that the first impression of all the new-comers
was how completely he had left the boy behind him, making it an effort
of memory to believe him only nineteen and a half. But they all knew
him for their head, and leant themselves against him. And in the
meantime, Edgar's appearance was a perfect feast of enjoyment, not
only to little loving Geraldine, but to sage Felix. They recreated
themselves with gazing at him, and when left alone together would
discuss his charms in low confidential murmurs, quite aware that Wilmet
would think them very silly; but Edgar was the great romance of both.
Edgar observed that Clement had done all the growth for both himself
and Felix, and was doing his best to be a light of the Church by
resembling nothing but an altar-taper. When they all repaired to the
back of the cupboard door in Mr. Audley's room to be measured, his head
was found far above Edgar's mark at fourteen, and therewith he was lank
and thin, not yet accustomed to the length of his own legs and arms,
and seeming as if he was not meant to be seen undraped by his surplice.
His features and face were of the family type, but a little smaller,
and with much less of the bright rosy tinting; indeed, when not excited
he was decidedly pale, and his eyes and hair were a little lighter than
those of the rest. It was a refined, delicate, thoughtful face, pretty
rather than handsome, and its only fault was a certain melancholy
superciliousness or benignant pity for every one who did not belong to
the flock of St. Matthew's.
Regular features are always what most easily lose individuality, and
become those of the owner's class; and if Clement was all chorister,
Fulbert and Lancelot were all school-boy. The two little fellows were
a long way apart in height, though there were only two years between
them; for Lance was on a much smaller scale, but equally full of ruddy
health and superabundant vigour; and while Fulbert was the more rough
and independent, his countenance had not the fun and sweetness that
rendered Lance's so winning. Their looks were repeated in Robina, who
was much too square and sturdy for any attempt at beauty, and was
comically like a boy and like her brothers, but with much frank honesty
and determination in her big grey darkly-lashed eyes. Angela was one of
the most altered of all; for her plump cherub cheeks had melted away
under the glow of measles, and the whooping process had lengthened
and narrowed her small person into a demure little thread-paper of
six years old, omnivorous of books, a pet and pickle at school, and
a romp at home--the sworn ally, offensive and defensive, of stout,
rough-pated, unruly Bernard. Stella was the loveliest little bit of
painted porcelain imaginable, quite capable of being his companion, and
a perfect little fairy, for beauty, gracefulness, and quickness of all
kinds. Alda was delighted with her pretty caressing ways and admiration
of the wonderful new sister. She was of quieter, more docile mood than
these two, though aspiring to their companionship; for it was startling
to see how far she had left Theodore behind. He was still in arms,
and speechless, a little pale inanimate creature, taking very little
notice, and making no sound except a sort of low musical cooing of
pleasure, and a sad whining moan of unhappiness, which always recurred
when he was not in the arms of Sibby, Wilmet, or Felix. It was only
when Felix held out his arms to take him that the sound of pleasure was
heard; and once on that firm knee, with his shining head against that
kind heart, he was satisfied, and Felix had accustomed himself to all
sorts of occupations with his little brother in his left arm. Even at
night, there was no rest for Theodore, unless Felix took him into his
room. So often did the little fretting moan summon him, that soon the
crib took up his regular abode beside his bed.
But Felix, though of course spared from the shop, could not be
dispensed with from the printing-house, where he was sub-editor; and in
his absence Theodore was always less contented; and his tearless moan
went to his sister's heart, for the poor little fellow had been wont
to lie day and night in his mother's bosom, and she had been as uneasy
without him as he now was without her. All her other babes had grown
past her helpless instinctive tenderness, and Theodore's continued
passiveness had been hitherto an advantage, which had always been
called his 'goodness and affection.'
Alda was the first to comment on the wonderful interval between the
twins, when Wilmet accounted for it by Theodore's having been quite
kept back for his mother's sake, and likewise by his having been more
reduced by measles and whooping-cough than Stella had been; but to
fresh observers it was impossible to think that all was thus explained,
and Edgar and Alda discussed it in a low voice when they found
themselves alone.
'The fact is plain,' said Edgar; 'but I suppose nothing can be done,
and I see no use in forcing it on poor Wilmet.'
'I don't understand such blindness.'
'Not real blindness--certainly not on Felix's part. He knows that
load is on his back for life. Heigh-ho! a stout old Atlas we have
in Blunderbore; I wonder how long I shall be in plucking the golden
apples, and taking a share.'
'I thought it was Atlas that gathered the apples.'
'Don't spoil a good simile with superfluous exactness, Alda! It is base
enough to compare the gardens of the Hesperides to a merchant's office!
I wonder how many years it will take to get out of the drudgery, and
have some power of enjoying life and relieving Felix. One could tear
one's hair to see him tied down by this large family till all his best
days are gone.'
'Some of the others may get off his hands, and help.'
'Not they! Clem is too highly spiritualized to care for anything so
material as his own flesh and blood; and it is not their fault if
little Lance does not follow in his wake. Then if Ful has any brains,
he is not come to the use of them; he is only less obnoxious than Tina
in that he _is_ a boy and not a church candle, but boys are certainly a
mistake.'
If ever the mature age of seventeen could be excused for so regarding
boyhood, it was under such circumstances. All were too old for any
outbreaks, such as brought Angela and Bernard to disgrace, and
disturbed the hush of those four sad days; but the actual loss had
been so long previous, that the pressure of present grief was not so
crushing as to prevent want of employment and confinement in that small
silent house from being other than most irksome and tedious.
Clement would have done very well alone; he went to church, read, told
Angela stories, and discoursed to Cherry on the ways of St. Matthew's;
but, unfortunately, there was something about him that always incited
the other boys to sparring, nor was he always guiltless of being the
aggressor, for there was no keeping him in mind that comparisons are
odious.
Church music might seem a suitable subject, but the London chorister
could not abstain from criticising St. Oswald's and contemning the
old-fashioned practices of the Cathedral, which of course Lance
considered himself bound to defend, till the very names of Gregorians
and Anglicans became terrible to Cherry as the watchwords of a
wrangling match. Fulbert, meantime, made no secret of his contempt for
both brothers as mere choristers instead of school-boys, and exalted
himself whenever he detected their ignorance of any choice _morceau_ of
slang; while their superior knowledge on any other point was viewed as
showing the new-fangled girlish nonsense of their education.
This Lance did not mind; but he was very sensitive as to the dignity
of his Cathedral, and the perfections of his chosen friend, one Bill
Harewood; and Fulbert was not slow to use the latter engine for
'getting a rise' out of him, while Clement as often, though with less
design, offended by disparagement of his choir; nor could Edgar refuse
himself the diversion of tormenting Clement by ironical questions and
remarks on his standard of perfection, which mode of torture enchanted
Fulbert, whenever he understood it. Thus these four brothers contrived
to inflict a good amount of teasing on one another, all the more
wearing and worrying because deprived of its only tolerable seasoning,
mirth.
Clement had indeed a refuge in Mr. Audley's room, where he could find
books, and willing ears for Mr. Fulmort's doings; but he availed
himself of it less than might have been expected. Whether from
inclination to his brothers' society, desire to do them good, or innate
pugnacity, he was generally in the thick of the conflict; and before
long he confided to Felix that he was seriously uneasy about Edgar's
opinions.
'He is only chaffing you,' said Felix.
'Chaff, _now!_' said Clement.
'Well, Clem, you know you are enough to provoke a saint, you bore so
intolerably about St. Matthew's.'
The much disgusted Clement retired into himself, but Felix was not
satisfied at heart.
_One_ was lacking on the cold misty New Year's morning, when even
Geraldine could not be withheld from the Communion Feast of the living
and departed. Each felt the disappointment when they found themselves
only six instead of seven; but it was Clement who, as the boys were
waiting for breakfast afterwards, began--
'Have not you been confirmed, Edgar?'
'How should I?'
'I am sure there are plenty of foreign Confirmations. I see them in the
"British Catholic."'
'Foreign parts isn't all one,' said Edgar; and the younger boys
sniggled.
'If one took any trouble,' persisted Clement.
'Yes, but _one_,' dwelling with emphasis on the awkward impersonal,
'_one_ may have scruples about committing an act of schism by
encouraging an intruding bishop performing episcopal functions in
another man's diocese. Has not your spiritual father taught you that
much, Tina?'
'I--I must find out about that,' said Clement thoughtfully; 'but, at
any rate, the Lent Confirmations are coming on in London, and if I were
to speak to the Vicar, I have no doubt he would gladly prepare you.'
'Nor I,' answered Edgar.
'Then shall I?' eagerly asked Clement.
'Not at present, thank you.'
Clement stood blank and open mouthed, and Fulbert laughed, secure that
the joke, whatever it might be, was against him.
'Of course,' burst out Lance, 'Edgar does not want you to speak for
him, Clem; he has got a tongue of his own, and a clergyman too, I
suppose.'
Clement proceeded to a disquisition, topographical and censorial, upon
the parish and district to which Edgar might be relegated, and finally
exclaimed, 'Yes, he is not much amiss. He has some notions. He dines
with us sometimes. You can go to him, Edgar, and I'll get the Vicar to
speak to him.'
'Thank you, I had rather be excused.'
'You cannot miss another Confirmation.'
'I can't say I am fond of pledges, especially when no one can tell how
much or how little they mean.'
Whether this were in earnest, or a mere thrust in return for Clement's
pertinacity, was undecided, for Wilmet came in, looking so sad and
depressed that the brothers felt rebuked for the tone in which they had
been speaking.
Mr. Thomas Underwood soon arrived, having come to Centry the night
before; and after a few words had passed between him and Edgar, the
latter announced his intention of returning with him to London that
evening.
'Very well,' said Felix, much disappointed at this repetition of
Edgar's willingness to hurry from the house of mourning, 'but we have
had very little of you; Clement must go on the day after Twelfth Day,
and we shall have more room. It will be a great blow to Cherry.'
'Poor little Cherry! I'll come when I can see her in greater peace, but
I must buckle to with the beginning of the year, Fee.'
There was no further disputing the point, but Edgar was always a great
loss. To every one except Clement he was so gentle and considerate that
it was impossible not to think that the strange things reported of him
were not first evoked and then exaggerated by the zeal of the model
chorister: and indeed he led Geraldine to that inference when he went
to her in the sitting-room, where, as before, she had to remain at home.
'My Cherry, I find I must go back with old Tom. Don't be vexed, my
White-heart, I am not going back to Belgium, you know: I can often run
down, but my work ought to begin with the year.'
'You cannot even stay over the Epiphany!'
'Well, I would have made an effort, but I am really wanted; and then
if I am long with that light of the church, Tina, he will get me into
everybody's black books. Never mind, old girl. I'll be for ever running
down. Is any one going to stay with you?'
'Bernard is coming presently; I must try to make him recollect
something about it.'
'You don't mean that child Angel is going.'
'She wishes it, and it seems right.'
'Right to leave a black spot in her memory! If children could but
believe people were sublimated away!'
'Children can believe in the Resurrection of the body as well as we,'
said Cherry reverently.
'Better, too, by a long chalk,' he muttered; then perceiving her
dismayed expression, he added, 'No, no--I'm not talking to Tina, only
he has put me in the humour in which there is nothing he could not make
me dispute--even my Cherry being the sweetest morsel in the world.
There, good-bye for the present, only don't afflict that poor little
Bernard and yourself into _too_ great wretchedness, out of a sense of
duty.'
'No, I do not really grieve,' said Cherry. 'Tears come for
thankfulness. The real sorrow came long ago; we grew up in it, and it
is over now.'
'Right, little one. The mortal coil was very heavy and painful these
last years, and no one can help being relieved that the end has come.
It is the conventionalities that are needlessly distressing. What
earthly purpose can it serve, save the amusement of the maids and
children of Bexley, that nine of us should present ourselves a pitiful
spectacle all the way up to the cemetery in veils and hat-bands?'
'Don't talk so, Edgar; you do not know how it jars, though I know you
mean no disrespect.'
'Well, it must be a blessed thing to end by drowning or blowing up, to
save one's friends trouble.'
'Edgar, indeed I cannot bear this! Recollect what a treasure that dear
shattered earthen vessel has held. What a wonderful life of patient
silent resignation it was!'
'Indeed it was,' said Edgar, suddenly softened. 'No lips could tell
what the resolution must have been that carried her through those
years, never murmuring. What must she not have spared my father! Such
devotion is the true woman's heritage.'
Cherry was soothed as she saw the dew on his eye-lashes, but just then
Felix came in to fetch him, and, stooping down, kissed her, and said
in his low and tender but strong voice, 'We leave her with _him_, dear
child. Recollect--
'"The heart may ache, but may not burst;
Heaven will not leave thee, nor forsake."'
Much as Geraldine had longed for Edgar, his words brought vague
yearning and distress, while Felix's very tone gave support. How could
Edgar say patient silent self-devotion was not to be found except in
woman?
So the worn-out body that once had been bright smiling Mary Underwood
was borne to the church she had not entered since she had knelt there
with her husband; and then she was laid beside him in the hill-side
cemetery, the graves marked by the simple cross, for which there had
been long anxious saving, the last contribution having been a quarter
of the Bishop's gift to Lancelot. The inscription was on the edges of
the steps, from which the cross rose--
_UNDER WODE, UNDER RODE._
EDWARD FULBERT UNDERWOOD,
Nine Years Curate of this Parish,
Epiphany, 1855,
AGED 40.
'Thy Rod and Thy Staff comfort me.'
There was room enough for the name of Mary Wilmet, his wife, to be
added at the base of the Rood, that Cross which they had borne, the one
so valiantly, the other so meekly, during their 'forty years in the
wilderness.'
Many persons were present out of respect not only to the former Curate,
but to his hard-working son and daughter, and not only the daughter's
holly-wreath, but one of camellias sent by Sister Constance, lay upon
the pall. When the mourners had turned away, Mr. Audley saw a slender
lad standing by, waiting till the grave was smoothed to lay on it
a wreath of delicate white roses and ferns. There was no mistaking
the clear olive face; and indeed Mr. Audley had kept up a regular
correspondence with Ferdinand Travis, and knew that the vows made two
years ago had been so far persevered in, and without molestation from
father or uncle. He had written an account of Mrs. Underwood's death,
but had received no answer.
'This is kind, Ferdinand,' he said; 'it will gratify them.'
'May I see any of them?' the youth asked.
'Felix and Lance will be most glad.'
'I only received your letter yesterday evening. Dr. White forwarded it
to me in London, and I persuaded my father to let me come down.'
'You are with your father?'
'Yes; he came home about a fortnight ago. I was going to write to you.
O Mr. Audley, if you are not in haste, can you tell me whether I can
see my dear Diego's grave?'
'The Roman Catholic burial-ground is on the other side of the town. I
think you will have to go to Mr. Macnamara for admittance. Come home
with me first, Fernan.'
'Home!' he said warmly. 'Yes, it has always seemed so to me! I have
dreamt so often of her gentle loving face and tender weak voice. She
was very kind to me;' and he raised his hat reverently, as he placed
the flowers upon the now completed grave. 'I saw that all were here
except the little ones and Geraldine,' he added. 'How is she?'
'As well as usual. Wilmet is a good deal worn and downcast, but all are
calm and cheerful. The loss cannot be like what that of their father
was.'
'Will they go on as they are doing now?'
'I trust so. I am going down to the family consultation. The London
cousin is there.'
'Then perhaps I had better not come in,' said Ferdinand, looking rather
blank. 'Shall I go down to Mr. Macnamara first?'
'Had you rather go alone, or shall I send Lance to show you the way?'
'Dear little Lance, pray let me have him!'
'It is a longish walk. Is your lameness quite gone?'
'Oh yes, I can walk a couple of miles very well, and when I give out it
is not my leg, but my back. They say it is the old jar to the spine,
and that it will wear off when I have done growing, if I get plenty of
air and riding. This will not be too much for me, but I must be in time
for the 3.30 train, I promised my father.'
'Is he here alone?'
'Yes, my uncle is in Brazil. My father is here for a month, and is very
kind; he seems very fairly satisfied with me; and he wants me to get
prepared for the commission in the Life Guards.'
'The Life Guards!'
'You see he is bent on my being an English gentleman, but he has some
dislike to the University, fancies it too old-world or something; and,
honestly, I cannot wish it myself. I can't take much to books, and Dr.
White says I have begun too late, and shall never make much of them.'
'If you went into the Guards, my brother might be a friend to you.'
'My back is not fit for the infantry,' said Ferdinand, 'but I can ride
anything; I always could. I care for nothing so much as horses.'
'Then why not some other cavalry regiment?'
'Well, my father knows a man with a son in the Life Guards, who has
persuaded him that it is the thing, and I don't greatly care.'
'Is he prepared for the expensiveness?'
'I fancy it is the recommendation,' said Ferdinand, smiling with a
little shame; 'but if you really see reason for some other choice
perhaps you would represent it to him. I think he would attend to you
in person.'
'Have you positively no choice, Fernan?'
'I never like the bother of consideration,' said Ferdinand; 'and
in London I might have more chance of seeing you and other friends
sometimes. I do know that it is not all my father supposes, but
he thinks it is all my ignorance, and I have not much right to be
particular.'
'Only take care that horses do not become your temptation,' said Mr.
Audley.
'I know,' gravely replied Ferdinand. 'The fact is,' he added, as they
turned down the street, 'that I do not want to go counter to my father
if I can help it. I have not been able to avoid vexing him, and this is
of no great consequence. I can exchange, if it should not suit me.'
'I believe you are right,' said the Curate; 'but I will inquire and
write to you before the application is made. Wait, and I will send out
Lance. But ought you not to call at the Rectory?'
'I will do so as I return,' said Ferdinand; and as Mr. Audley entered
the house, he thought that the making the Cacique into an English
gentleman seemed to have been attained as far as accent, mind, and
manner went, and the air and gesture had always been natural in him.
His tone rather than his words were conclusive to the Curate that his
heart had never swerved from the purpose with which he had stood at the
Font; but the languor and indolence of the voice indicated that the
tropical indifference was far from conquered, and it was an anxious
question whether the life destined for him might not be exceptionally
perilous to his peculiar temperament of nonchalance and excitability.
Consideration was not possible just then, for when Mr. Audley opened
the door, he found that he had been impatiently waited for, and barely
time was allowed to him to send Lance to Ferdinand Travis, before he
was summoned to immediate conference with Thomas Underwood, who, on
coming in, had assumed the management of affairs, and on calling for
the will, was rather displeased with Felix's protest against doing
anything without Mr. Audley, whom he knew to have been named guardian
by his father. The cousin seemed unable to credit the statement; and
Wilmet had just found the long envelope with the black seal, exactly
as it had lain in the desk, which had never been disturbed since the
business on their father's death had been finished.
There was the old will made long before, leaving whatever there was
to leave unconditionally to the wife, with the sole guardianship of
the children; and there was the codicil dated the 16th of October,
1854, appointing Charles Somerville Audley, clerk, to the guardianship
in case of the death of the mother, while they should all, or any of
them, be under twenty-one, and directing that in that contingency the
property should be placed in his hands as trustee, the interest to be
employed for their maintenance, and the capital to be divided equally
among them, each receiving his or her share on coming of age. All
this was in Edward Underwood's own handwriting, and his signature was
attested by the Rector and the doctor.
Thomas Underwood was more 'put out,' than the management of such an
insignificant sum seemed to warrant. He was no doubt disappointed of
his cousin's confidence, as well as of some liberal (if domineering)
intentions; and he was only half appeased when Edgar pointed to
the date, and showed that the arrangement had been made before the
renewal of intercourse. 'It was hardly fair to thrust a charge upon a
stranger when there was a relation to act. Poor Edward, he ought to
have trusted,' he said. There was genuine kindness of heart in the
desire to confer benefits, though perhaps in rather an overbearing
spirit, as well as disappointment and hurt feeling that his cousin had
acquiesced in his neglect without an appeal. However, after asking
whether Mr. Audley meant to act, and hearing of his decided intention
of doing so, he proceeded to state his own plans for them. The present
state of things could not continue, and he proposed that Wilmet and
Geraldine should go as half boarders to some school, to be prepared for
governesses. Felix--could he write short-hand? 'Oh yes; but--' Then
he knew of a capital opening for him; a few years, and he would be on
the way to prosperity: the little ones might be boarded with their old
nurse till fit for some clergy orphan schools; if the means would not
provide for all, there need be no difficulty made on that score.
Mr. Audley saw Felix's start of dismay and glance at him, but knowing
as he did that the lad was always more himself when not interfered
with, and allowed to act for himself, he only said, 'It is very kind in
you, sir, but I think Felix should be consulted.'
'It is impossible!' began Felix hastily.
'Impossible! It is quite impossible, I would have you to understand,
that a lot of children like you should keep house together, and on such
an income as that. Quite preposterous.'
'As for that,' said Felix, still unsubmissively, 'it is only what we
have been doing, except for the name of the thing, for the last three
years on the same means.'
'You don't mean to tell me that you have kept things going on such
means without a debt?'
'Of course we have! We never let a bill run,' said Felix, slightly
indignant.
'Now mind, I'm not insulting you, Felix, but I know what the women are
and what they tell us. Are you sure of that? No debts--honour bright?'
'None at all!' said Felix, with an endeavour at calmness, but glowing
hotly. 'I help my sister make up her books every Saturday night. We
always pay ready money.'
'Humph,' said Mr. Underwood, still only half convinced. 'Living must be
cheap at Bexley.'
'You had better explain a little, Felix,' said Mr. Audley.
Felix did bring himself to say, 'I am sub-editor now, and get £100 a
year, besides being paid for any article I write. Wilmet has £25 a year
and her dinner, and Angela's at school, so there are only five of us
constantly dining at home, and with Mr. Audley's two guineas a week we
can do very well.'
'What, you lodge here?'
'Did not you know that?' said Felix, surprised.
Mr. Underwood gave a whistle, and the Curate felt his cheeks growing
redder and redder, as he perceived that seven-and-twenty was not
considered as so _very_ much older than eighteen. Edgar understood and
smiled, but Felix only thought he was suspected of making a good thing
of his lodger, and was beginning something awkward about, 'It is all
kindness,' when Mr. Audley broke in--
'Of course nothing is settled yet, but--but I believe I shall change
my quarters. A smaller house would be better for them; but I think the
children should keep together. Indeed, my dear friend said he chiefly
appointed me that Felix might be kept at their head.'
Thereupon Mr. Underwood began to expostulate against the sacrifice of
position and talent that Felix was making for the sake of bearing the
burthen of a family that would have pressed heavily on a man double his
age. It was what Felix already knew, much better than when at sixteen
he had made his first venture. He had experienced the effects of change
of station, as well as of exertion, drudgery, and of the home hardship
that no one except Mr. Audley had tried to sweeten. He saw how Edgar
had acquired the nameless air and style that he was losing, how even
Clement viewed him as left behind; and, on the other hand, he knew
that with his own trained and tested ability and application, and his
kinsman's patronage, there was every reasonable chance of his regaining
a gentleman's position, away from that half-jealous, half-conceited
foreman, who made every day a trial to him, and looked at him with an
evil eye as a supplanter in the post of confidence. But therewith he
thought of his father's words, that to him he left this heavy burthen;
and he thought what it would be to have no central home, no place of
holiday-meeting, no rallying-point for the boys and girls, and to cast
off the little ones to hired service. This alternative never seriously
occurred to him, for were they not all bound to him by the cords of
love, and most closely the weakest and most helpless? Yet his first
reply did not convey the weight of his determination. It was only
'Geraldine is too delicate.'
'Well, well, good advice and treatment might make a change. Or, if she
be fit for nothing else, would not that Sisterhood at Dearport take her
on reasonable terms? Not that I can away with such nonsense, but your
father had his fancies.'
'My father wished us not to break up the home.'
'That was all very well when your poor mother was alive. You have been
a good son to her, but it is impossible that you and your sister, mere
children as you are, should set up housekeeping by yourselves. Mr.
Audley must see it cannot be suffered; it is the bounden duty of your
friends to interfere.'
Mr. Audley did not speak. He knew that Felix could reckon on his
support; and, moreover, that the youth would show himself to greater
advantage when not interfered with. So after pausing to see whether his
guardian would speak, Felix said, 'Of course we are in Mr. Audley's
power, but he knows that we have made some trial, and except in name,
we have really stood alone for these three years. Wilmet can quite
manage the house, and it would be misery for ever to us all to have no
home. In short--' and Felix's face burnt, his voice choked, and his
eyes brimmed over with hot indignant tears, as he concluded, 'it shall
never be done with my good will.'
'And under the circumstances,' said Mr. Audley, 'I think Felix is
right.'
'Very well,' said Thomas Underwood, much displeased. 'I have no power
here, and if you and that lad think he can take charge of a house and a
dozen children, you must have it your own way. Only, when they have all
gone to rack and ruin, and he is sick of being a little tradesman in a
country town, he will remember what I said.'
Felix forced back his resentful feelings, and contrived to say, 'Yes,
sir, I know it is a great disadvantage, and that you only wish for our
good; but I do not think anything would be so bad for the children as
to be all cast about the world, with no place to go to, and becoming
strangers to one another; and since there is this way of keeping them
together, it seems right.'
The steadiness of his manner struck Mr. Underwood, and the reply was
not unkind.
'You are a good boy at bottom, Felix, and mean well, and I am only
sorry not to be able to hinder you from throwing yourself away for life
by trying to do what is morally impossible, in a foolish spirit of
independence. Do not interrupt. I warn you that I am not to be appealed
to for getting you out of the difficulties you are plunging into; but
of course your brother and sister will be mine, as before; and as I
promised myself to do the same by your mother as by your father--my
near cousins both--here is to cover necessary expenses.'
It was a cheque for £150, the same as he had given on the former
occasion; and though Felix had rather not have taken it, he had
little choice, and he brought himself to return cold but respectful
thanks; and Mr. Underwood did not manifest any more displeasure, but
showed himself very kind at the meal that was spread in Mr. Audley's
sitting-room, and even invited Wilmet to accompany Alda, when she
joined the family in a week's time at Brighton, so as to have sea air
for the remainder of her holidays.
Nothing could be more reluctant than was Wilmet at first, but there was
a chorus of persuasions and promises; and the thought of being a little
longer in Alda's presence made her waver and almost consent.
Ferdinand Travis came in, but had only time for a greeting and a hasty
meal, before Mr. Underwood's carriage came round; and, nothing loth,
he gave a lift to the Mexican millionaire to the station with him
and Edgar. So, for the last time, had all the thirteen been at home
together.