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.'