THE TASK OVER.
'If you might, would you now
Retrace your way,
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hopes smiles around us shed,
Heavenward away!'
Lady Nairne.
Felix, Cherry, and Gerald were taking one of their slow drives with Master Ratton, when a tall horse passed them, and with the shout 'As right as a trivet,' Charles Audley the younger waved his hat and rode on, leaving them to meditate on his announcement. 'A three legged article,' as Cherry said, 'hardly suited the felicity he seemed to intend.'
Charlie had not gone in for honors, but had obtained the flattering assurance that he would have had them if he had tried. The announcement, backed perhaps by some mediation of his uncle, had brought an offer of a private secretaryship from Lord Liddesdale, and therewith armed, he had made the awful plunge at the Hall—his father and uncle both waiting to defend his independence.
Behold! Sir Robert and Lady Margaret had comported themselves like lambs. Either the scheme for Charlie's union with his cousin had been a figment, or they were glad to get the sole hope of their house married at all, or they were gratified by Lord Liddesdale's estimate of him, and had learnt wisdom by the ill effects of former opposition. Anyway their consent had been startlingly facile. They heeded birth more than wealth: Stella, with her own legacy and Theodore's, was not unportioned, and an Underwood of Vale Leston had such undeniable county blood that they never connected the younger Charles's ravings with the alarms that had elicited their consent to the elder Charles's expatriation fourteen years ago. Moreover Lady Liddesdale, who had been the young man's confidante, had promised to be a mother to his bride. She had just married off her last daughter, and wanted a young companion, and she offered rooms at the Embassy, and whatever Charlie could wish for his wife in the way of help and kindness.
So here was the young gentleman in tempestuous ecstasy, announcing that there could be no delay, for he was wanted at the Embassy by the middle of February.
The elder brothers and sisters expected to see their nestling distracted by the summons to a distant home in a strange land, but her equanimity amazed them all. She was Charlie's property, and it was only natural to be claimed. 'Every one did,' she said, and she would have been quite as contented to go with him to a City lodging or to the Australian bush as to the splendours of the Embassy.
Wilmet thought her too young to realize what it all meant, and held that she ought to wait a year or two; but Felix would hear of this as little as the captain, having no doubt that the calm, self-contained, thoughtful nature would be equal to whatever it might be called on to meet; and though Charlie was the younger in character, he was a thoroughly good, trustworthy fellow, nor would they begin with an independent home. Besides, was not Lady Liddesdale own sister to 'Sister Constance'?
The announcement of this splendid engagement mollified Marilda, who wrote heartily, and offered services either of hospitality or of choice of wedding clothes. Stella could not bear to leave home, but she was overruled. It was due to the Ambassadress that her outfit should neither be countrified nor left to Marilda's taste; so Wilmet took her to London for a week, and by Felix's desire expended the child's own original inheritance from her father in garments that might not disgrace the suite; the chief difficulty being that Stella had made Charlie consent to her completing her year of mourning for her brothers—a terrible grievance to Mrs. Underwood. Wilmet was meantime the recipient of all Marilda's views as to the folly of Felix's rejection of her offer to Gerald, over whom she absolutely seemed to yearn—and she caught at the invitation to the wedding as at least affording her a chance of seeing him, if not of bringing his uncle to hear reason.
The marriage was to take place on New Year's Day, and as soon as the bustle was over, 'Sister Constance' was actually coming to Vale Leston to arrange for the branch of the St Faith's Sisterhood which was to be established in connection with the future Church of the Comforter at East Ewmouth. She was to choose among houses to let the temporary abode of the sisters, but in the first place was to have a few days for the young friends, who now ranked as old, and on Charles Audley the elder.
The oculist's verdict had not been hopeless, but it had obliged him to give up all prospect of a return to a climate so noxious to the eyes as that of Western Australia. His visit to his home had made it evident that his place was no longer there. His parents were old and self-occupied, and had little in common with him, chiefly depending on their daughter-in-law, a complete woman of the world, thoroughly alien to the clergyman who had spent his strength on wild 'black fellows' and rude convicts. He was more trouble than pleasure to any of the party, and deemed it inadvisable to endure the penance of idleness and uncongeniality in their stately halls, since they gave him no opening for being of use to them; and his brother, who would not leave him, was always miserable there. Once the pet at home, 'poor Charles' was mourned over for his peculiarities, and coughed down if he endeavoured to explain them.
So as Clement was in the usual case of country Vicars, curate-hunting in vain, Mr. Audley proffered himself as a 'demi-semi-assistant,' able to do a good deal without book, and thankful for a refuge from total inefficiency. Clement was rather shocked at finding himself in such relations towards his old Guardian, almost a Bishop elect, but rejoiced in the counsel and support of his experience even more than in the actual aid, which indeed he greatly needed. And to Felix, the intercourse with his first friend was the greatest delight, while there was a rally in his health in the autumn that made even those who knew the worst hope the evil was averted, and every one else viewed him as recovering.
Perhaps he ventured a little too much in the greater sense of strength, for Lady Hammond being unable to go out, and warmly anxious to see the young couple, he took the long drive thither with them, and a few days later went to a public meeting. There was an attack upon Church influence in the Ewmouth hospital, and he went late, expecting only to have to give his vote, but he found a storm raging such as he did not expect, and his side of the question so inefficiently defended by its few lay representatives, that he stood up and spoke for nearly an hour with all his remarkable force and facility.
'I don't agree with you, Underwood,' said Mr. Walsh, as Felix, flushed and panting, waited till the rush to the door was over to get to his carriage, 'but you ought to be in the House; and that's much for a man to say when you've just been the means of beating him. You are one of the few who can make any life or sense out of the old cause.'
Clement was far from knowing whether to be glad or sorry, as Felix made answer with very little more than a languid smile. The speech certainly had, as the saying is, 'taken a great deal out of him,' and was Cherry's 'cheval de bataille' whenever any of the wedding guests found fault with his appearance.
There was a grand family gathering, bringing together all the surviving brothers and sisters, for the unexceptionable baronet connection had even induced Sir Adrian Vanderkist to bring his wife and two eldest children, who were to act bridesmaids, together with Robina and Angela, Gertrude May and Miss Audley. Geraldine and Marilda had paired off on the score of age, and little Mary Harewood was to wear a modified edition of the bridesmaid's white cashmere and stars of Bethlehem, whose green leaves gave the only colour the little bride would permit. The calmly decided manner in which she obtained her own way against fashion and conventionality amused everybody. Felix had hoped to have brought Ferdinand Travis and Marilda together on this occasion, but as soon as he found that Alda was coming, he had thought it better to abstain, and was rather relieved when the clerk at Peter Brown's sent information that Mr. Travis had left Barcelona, it was not known for what place, and so that his letter could not yet be forwarded.
The Vanderkists arrived late on the Monday, and the next morning Bernard conducted Sir Adrian to the covers he had been nursing up for this great occasion, Fulbert stalking along with him, thinking how hardly pressed stay-at-home people must be for something to do, if this were a sort of duty.
That last day of the old year was that on which Felix attained his object of signing away the lay rectory. The action was so unprecedented, and involved so many complications, that his strenuous efforts had only succeeded in getting the needful documents brought down from London with the marriage-settlements.
'Let me witness that,' said Mr. Audley: 'I am glad to have eyes enough at least for such a sight.'
Felix's face was calmly happy as he wrote the 'Felix Chester Underwood,' laid his finger on the seal, and spoke the 'I deliver this as my act and deed,' by which the Rectory returned to be Church property.
'It is a great load off my mind,' he said, handing the pen to Mr. Audley and William Harewood, who said nothing to him, but merrily shook hands with the new Rector, joking him on the additional substance and consequence the title called for, jests the readier because they all knew them to be empty, since East Ewmouth carried off the surplus tithe, and he only obtained the title and the power over his Chancel. Then Felix required their witness and the lawyer's to the will which the numerous recent changes had necessitated, and they afterwards carried the lawyer off to see the buildings, while Felix might rest till the arrival of the other parties to the marriage-settlements.
However, they had not been gone long before a gentle knock came to the door. 'Alda, my dear, are you come to pay me a visit?' and Felix met her affectionately, and drew a chair for her close to his own.
'I thought I might come when your business was over,' she said. 'I have scarcely seen you.'
'Have you been over the house? You remembered it! You have seen your little girls in our own cribs at last.'
'Yes, I have so often wished to come, ever since you have been here. You quite understand that I should have been so glad, only journeys are so expensive, and we are so many.'
'I see.'
'That is one of the few ways in which I can save,' she said. 'It is such an anxiety to have so many daughters.'
'Seven now?'
'Seven! Adrian says it makes us ridiculous. Poor children! That's what I came to speak to you about, Felix. I want you to talk to Adrian.'
'About what?' asked Felix, not sanguine of either talking the daughters into sons, or their father into preference of the sex.
'About some provision for them,' said the mother; and there ensued an explanation that nothing was secured to the children but her own portion from uncle Tom, while as to the estate, so long as there was no male heir, Sir Adrian could do as he pleased with it, and at the rate of his present expenditure there would be little left for his successors; and Alda, with some vague idea of Felix's helpfulness, had come to beg him to persuade her husband to insure his life, contract his expenses, or do something that might secure her children from dire poverty. She began with a wife's natural reticence and a guarded voice, but gradually, as the home sense of being with the brotherly protector of earlier days wrought upon her, she dropped her caution, and disclosed the harass of her life. Her husband, it seemed, was more and more devoted to the turf, and the display he thought needful to his position, but while he grudged his wife every outlay needful to maintain that ostentation, he was still more unwilling to allow her the requisites for the health, comfort, and education of the children.
'He thinks anything will do for them,' said Alda, with a dismal sharpness in her voice; 'he can't bear spending on anything but himself.'
'No, no, Alda, it is hardly well to put such things into words.'
'I would not except to you, Felix; but indeed it does me good to have it out. I get so disheartened, I would let everything take its chance, but for my poor little girls. There is a wrangle over every cheque! If I try to save in the housekeeping, he is angry about the dinners, and I can't ask for money to pay bills without being blamed for extravagance. Indeed, whether I get it or not, he is always cross with me all the rest of the day. I'm ashamed to see all here in black, but he would not let me do more than just wear a little slight mourning myself, and that for a short time. He would not hear of it for the children. Felix, when I see your peaceful faces and unruffled ways, I feel as if this were a world of peace.'
'You must contribute gentleness yourself, my poor Alda.'
She had never answered him so humbly. 'Indeed I am obliged to try, but you know I never was the good-tempered one at home, and it is very, very hard when one is never very well, and always harassed and anxious. I don't think, in the worst of times, Wilmet had to spend more thought on pinching here and there to make both ends meet than I have, and at least she had the comfort of keeping out of debt, and was thanked and not despised! Will you speak to Adrian, Felix; of course not letting him guess I told you, but beginning as if of yourself about the children?'
'My dear, I can hardly promise, but whatever I can do for you I will. Your little maidens seem to be sweet little, well-trained children, and if they grow up united and affectionate they may be happier on small means than you suppose.'
'The dinner of herbs and stalled ox,' said Alda; 'I have thought of Mettie's rice stews many a time when I have sat quaking because there were no truffles in the soup. Dear children, I am so glad they seem nice to you. I do believe they have the good tempers of our family; there are never any quarrels, and their grandmamma is so fond of them. I do try to keep them good, and'—there were tears in her eyes—'it does make one think more about things to have those little ones round one.'
'That is the blessing little Gerald brought to poor Edgar,' said Felix, pressing the hand she had laid upon his knees. 'The greatest of all.'
'When I see you I know it is,' said poor Alda; 'but sometimes I think if I had not been brought up religiously I should be happier, I should not think things so bad; and then Adrian is never so cross as if he thinks me wanting to be serious, or to make the children so. It makes him dislike our being with his mother, though nothing is such a comfort to me.'
'My dear, comfort will grow if you go on striving to submit meekly; do your best with your children, and look beyond.'
He was really more hopeful about Alda than he had ever been. Just then she said: 'One thing more. Mary and Sophy are old enough to need a governess. I have managed so far with a bonne, but I have neither time, spirits, nor ability to teach, and Adrian would be furious if I asked him for a proper salary. Do you think Robina would come to us—to live of course as my sister, on an equality? The delight and comfort it would be——'
To poor Alda, thought Felix, but Robina ought not to be sacrificed. 'It would not be right to ask her, remembering her engagement.'
'What engagement?'
'To Will Harewood.'
'My dear Felix, you don't mean that you have consented to anything so foolish! How are they to live?'
'They have been for the last four years endeavouring to save. He makes a good deal by his pupils, and by his writings, besides his fellowship, and she adds something from her salary. They mean to get £5000 together between them—her salary, and his fellowship, pupils and books—and then take either a parish or a mastership at a school.'
'It seems to me sheer imprudence,' said the old Alda, half peevish at the opposition; 'I did think she might have been glad to leave strangers for the sake of her sister, and her natural position.'
'You forget the difference the salary makes to her prospects. She has £150 a year, and it would not be right to ask her to give it up, considering——'
'I can't see why my children should be sacrificed to William Harewood!'
'Perhaps not, but Robina might. No, Alda, it will not do. The De la Poers have made her so happy that she feels Repworth another home, and I should not like to ask her to leave it till she marries.'
'It is hard,' sighed Alda, in a tone not unlike those heard over the shop of Bexley; but then followed another question: 'I want to know what you think about Marilda?'
'About Marilda? You know she is coming this evening.'
'Yes, but about her intentions.'
'I did not know she had any intentions.'
'You see it is plain she will never marry now, and I used to be nearer to her than any one. Don't look so amazed, Felix! I know she is only of my age, and of course it is not so much with any immediate expectations as for the sake of the influence there might be on Adrian. We used to see a good deal of her at one time, but I believe he tried to borrow money of her, and she spoke out in her rough way, so that he grew angry, and made me hold aloof; but now I am sure he wants to make it up with her again, he was so much put out about that little boy.'
'Little Gerald? How or why?'
'For fear she should want to adopt him, or make him her heir. Oh! Felix, you will do nothing to promote that. Remember, my poor little girls are just as near to you.'
'There's no fear of my promoting anything of the kind,' said Felix, coldly; 'Gerald is provided for. No one here will scheme for him.'
'Don't be displeased with me, Felix,' she said, more meekly. 'Only if Marilda should say anything——'
'The child whom dear Edgar expressly left to us we should not give up to any one.'
'I thought not; only if anything should pass, do turn her mind to us. It is not, of course, for the sake of the property, but if she just showed that sort of interest, it would give her weight with Adrian, and then if she suggests anything about the children he would be sure to attend. I can't say it, but you might.'
The motive was, after all, not so blameworthy; but before any answer could be given to this strange mixture of tokens of the long-dormant good seed, and the choking weeds of worldly care, the door was softly opened, a pretty glowing face peeped in, and was retreating with 'Oh! I didn't know,' but the morrow's bride might interrupt anything, and she was called back. 'Stella, my sweet Fair-Star, come in! Why, what have you got there? How it sparkles! What is it?'
'Eh!' exclaimed Alda, 'I declare it is a bouquet of diamond flowers and emerald leaves! I never saw anything more splendid. Where did it come from?'
'Out of Aladdin's cave? or is it dewdrops fixed by star-light?' said Felix, as the sparkles flashed on him. 'Stella, how did you come by it? It is not Audley family jewels, eh?'
'The Audleys never had—' but Alda checked what would have been spite, though Stella would not have minded it.
'Oh no,' she said. 'Cherry said you would guess.'
'Ferdinand Travis?' said Felix. 'Did he send it?'
'Charlie rowed him up in the skiff an hour ago, and ever since he has been showing us how to put it together, for it was all in separate velvet cases. It is all brooches and bracelets and necklaces, and a thing for one's head—a complete set really, you see,' said Stella, 'but it is just like a puzzle putting it up like this, and it is much prettier so.'
'Are you going to carry it as your bouquet to-morrow?'
'Oh no, that would never do!' interposed Alda.
'Oh no, I should not like that,' said Stella. 'Charlie has got me my bouquet, and that's best.'
'Much better taste,' said Alda; 'but this is truly magnificent. You will be prepared for the occasion, little Stella, even if you end as an ambassadress. The cost must have been enormous.' And she sighed.
'I am afraid so,' said Stella, a little oppressed; 'but Charlie is so pleased.'
'Yes, and Fernan can not only afford it, but must have thoroughly enjoyed doing it, my Star; so you need not scruple; he has robbed nothing he ought to benefit, you may be sure; so you may take lawful pleasure in it, little one, and "rejoice in your jewels as a bride doth."'
She smiled, but gravely. 'It is too beautiful,' she said. 'Isn't it a pomp?' she whispered into her brother's ear, as he turned the glittering thing about, enjoying the magic flashes of many-coloured rays.
'It might be,' he said, 'but it is not yet. It is the gift of a true and grateful spirit, and for itself—I never knew how beauteous these things were. Nay, Stella,' speaking low, as he laid a hand on her arm, and looked up into the sweet, thoughtful face, 'recollect that such are in the walls of the City above, and yet they are but the same stuff as earthly clay after all, showing us how dust can be sublimated. Look, the mysterious glory of those diamond lights may help us to dwell on the glories that eye hath not seen nor ear heard, and you know the rainbow round about the Throne is in sight like unto an emerald.'
'You've consecrated them, brother,' she said, with a sweet smile on her pensive face. 'When I think of that, it will keep them from being a temptation.'
He played silently with the flashing gleams a little longer, as if continuing the strain of thought, then said, 'Did you say he was here?'
'Yes; he only came back from Spain yesterday, and came down to bring this, though he did not know it was to be so soon.'
'Take your fairy bouquet, Princess Fair-Star, I'll come to him in a minute.'
'O yes, brother! There's the carriage coming down the drive!' and the voice was rather awe-struck.
'We will come too and help you through the introduction, little one,' said Felix, 'though I think you have self-possession to meet it.'
The little bride sprang away, and while Felix was slowly lifting himself up, he heard Alda murmur, 'Ferdinand Travis gave that! I wonder how many hundreds it cost.'
Certainly it was a contrast to the pinching and anxiety she had described. If she had but known, as Mrs. Underwood had said! Felix paused in the doubt whether to take any notice of the predicament, and said, 'He had gone to Barcelona, and I did not expect him to have returned by this time.'
'He has purchased a welcome,' said Alda, but her face glowed, and at the same moment the carriage crashed up to the door, containing the Audley party, who had all arrived at the Captain's the day before, except old Lady Margaret, who never left home.
'Thank you, Felix,' said Lady Vanderkist, as they repaired to the drawing-room in readiness for the reception. 'You have done me good.'
He could not quite see how, but no doubt there had been much in his look and manner of listening.
Sir Robert Audley was a pompous, formal old gentleman, tremendously condescending and courtly, and his first bow, his first tone showed Geraldine what a trial he must be to his sons—indeed the elder looked more bored than she had ever seen him.
'And where is the sweet young lady I am so soon to hail as my granddaughter?'
'Here she is, sir,' said Charlie, about to pull her forward, but she, by some intuition, advanced with a beautiful courtesy, perfect in grace but full of modesty and respect. Sir Robert was delighted, met her with a gracious gesture and kiss, and presented her to his daughter-in-law, Mrs. Somerville Audley—a dame stiff and fashionable-looking, and to Miss Audley, small, dark, and reminding Cherry of the old word 'modish.'
Alda was a great help, and so were the wedding presents. Ferdinand Travis had fled to Major Harewood's, but his bouquet evoked raptures from the ladies, though Cherry doubted whether the baronet were equally delighted that the Audley jewels he had produced for the bride of the heir presumptive should be eclipsed, for he kept on impressing on the young couple that these last were family relics, and must not be exposed to any risk, until Stella was ready to suggest that it would be wiser not to take them abroad, and was only withheld by the fear of seeming to slight them. Her habitual silence and observation had fostered a remarkable amount of simple tact, and this, together with her unusual loveliness, rendered her a great success; but the ceremonious speeches and grand politeness rendered the visit very fatiguing, and when the settlements had been duly signed, and the other high contracting power had bowed himself off, Felix looked so worn out that every one acquiesced in his shutting himself into his study. No one saw him again till the late dinner with which Sir Adrian must be regaled.
It was strictly a family party, and only the Harewoods, Vanderkists, and Mr. Travis, besides the whole eleven who still bore the name of Underwood, were assembled in the drawing-room. Marilda was there, hearty and good-natured as ever, but better looking at two-and-thirty than at two-and-twenty, for she had somewhat fined down, and actual work in business and charity had given meaning to her countenance, and energy instead of temper to her manner. She was assiduously courting little Gerald, and he backing out of her way into the more congenial society of Mary and Sophy Vanderkist. Cherry could not help thinking it an odd turn of the wheel of fortune that Alda should have so much nicer and better-regulated children than Wilmet. To be sure, Christopher and Edward were perfectly satisfactory to their parents, and obeyed them at a word, but the licence they enjoyed was a continual contrast to the strict rule Wilmet had maintained over her former charge, and did not render them agreeable company to their uncles and aunts. Moreover, the ruddy locks and freckles of the Harewoods had mastered the Underwood blonde complexion, while the two Vanderkists reproduced the elder twins at the same age, and were exemplary little maids, taught meekness by difficulties and yielding by seniority, grateful for notice from their uncles, and enchanted to find a boy so unlike their notions of the species. On the other hand, Gerald watched them like fairies, laid himself at their feet with precocious devotion, and mourned that he could not marry them both on the spot.
The grown-up party looked each other over rather as they had done on meeting fifteen years before at their mother's funeral—the years that had made their baby the fair little bride who was nestling as close as she could to her eldest brother that she might feel his hand on her shoulder. Those years had brought the 'little ones' of those days to be 'the tall ones' of the present, Bernard exceeding all the rest in stature, even Fulbert and Clement, with regular features, brilliant complexion, and glossy light-brown hair and moustache, but without as yet any particular expression except good-humoured complacency in his own appearance and deportment, being persuaded that Charlie would have to-morrow a true best man, unrivalled in looks and equipments; and without a regret, save that Felix was courteously deaf to all Sir Adrian's strictures on the scandalous state of his covers. Whatever those years had done for Bernard's outer man, his mind, or perhaps more properly his will, had not grown much older.
This could not be said of Angela, who sat so still and meek that Alda was meditating on transferring the governess proposal to her, but with a latent energy in the corner of the down-cast eye and firmly closed mouth, and the most anxious watchfulness of Felix's slightest movement. The change was comparatively small in sober Robina, whose steady equable nature had been early moulded, and who sat at the window curtain, with Will hovering over her, both trying not to contrast other people's love affairs with their own. The three brothers whose bickerings had then been so troublesome were now the most inseparable. If their paths had severed them, they liked each other better now, as they stood all in a row, with their backs against the mantel-piece, the big, bearded, sunburnt Australian, the close-shaven, alert clergyman, and the little bright-eyed, thin-faced, moustached tradesman, all eagerly talking in under tones of old Bexley pranks and comrades, laughing as they never did but in such a trio, and yet each bearing tokens of toil with the full might of vigorous manhood, unlike as was their work.
Geraldine's little bending figure had chiefly altered for the better. The mixture of arch lively grace and pathetic depth which gave her peculiar charm had increased rather than lessened, and though she had gained in dignity and confidence, anxieties and perplexities made her cheeks glow and her eyes wander restlessly as she tried to make talk for Sir Adrian.
The twin sisters were together on the sofa, both in black velvet. Wilmet had a bad cold, and indeed had never looked her best since the shock at Whitsuntide, so that Alda had regained the palm of beauty; but it was matronly content that had plumped the chiselled contour of feature, and if the colouring showed less clear and flower-like, it was by contrast with Alda's defined, over-transparent white and carnation, and the wasted look that threw out the perfection of the delicate moulding. One gave the notion of comfortable, peaceful motherliness, the other of constant anxious wear and tear; and the blue eye, so much larger and more hollow than the soft, calm one, rather weighed down by the cold, no doubt were rendered additionally restless by the presence of the man she had not seen since she had cast him off like a worn-out glove.
It was she who had married, but upon which had the impression lasted most painfully? There was a nervous quiver of her nostril, and a sullen scowl in her husband's eye, when, after the casual greeting, Ferdinand sat down among the children, took Gerald on his knee, and made friends with the little girls. He was indisputably the wealthiest man present, and the handsomest, except perhaps Bernard, whose good looks were merely the fair, scarcely developed graces of early youth, while his was the matured nobleness of countenance stamped on naturally fine outlines by a life of brave, unselfish activity and dutifulness. It was a calm, serious, dignified face, less melancholy than in his younger days, for the liquid wistfulness of the dark eyes had given place to vigilance and authority, and though there was still a want of susceptibility and animation, the dark colouring and statuesque outline did not need them.
'And he the chieftain of them all,' as Cherry liked to call her Squire—he was leaning back in the easy-chair by the fire, with a weary, placid smile on his face, and his fingers clasped lightly into one another, as his elbows rested on the arms of his chair. There was a strange monumental fixity of repose about him as if he were only half attending to the talk that passed by him, and cared more to gaze than to speak. However, on the announcement of dinner, he roused himself, gave his arm to Lady Vanderkist, and talked cheerily to her through the soup and fish, but while carving the turkey, he paused, a flush and then a whiteness came over his face, and saying to Alda, 'I'm afraid I must go, this is too much for me,' he rose, while Clement pushed back his chair and hastily followed.
Startled looks went round, and—'A tiring day'—'He has not done so much for a long time'—'That stuck-up old bore might do for anybody'—but in a few moments Clement came back, and said, while taking the seat at the bottom of the table, 'He is better now,' then tried to divert Alda's anxious inquiries whether using the arm had renewed the strain. Geraldine put on a defiant brightness, appealing to John whether Sir Robert were not enough to account for any fatigue, and with questionable taste in her excitement, giving Sir Adrian a sarcastic account of his compliments. Luckily, Stella was out of hearing, but John detected the ring of anxiety in every ironical word.
Knowing that a crowd coming after him was always oppressive to Felix, no one followed Wilmet when on leaving the drawing-room she went at once to the study door. She found Felix on the Squire's chair in its most couch-like form, looking even in the firelight exceedingly pale, but greeting her with a smile of welcome.
'Yes, I am better,' he said, in answer to her enquiry. 'I'll come into the drawing-room presently.'
'You had better not, you are overtired.'
'I like to look at them all,' was the answer.
They both sat silent awhile; there was something in the stillness that forbade Wilmet even to feel in her pocket for her tatting; but at last Felix surprised her by saying:
'I have been thinking about Jacob.'
'Jacob Lightfoot?'
'No, Israel. I think I enter a little into his surprise and gratitude. I look back—don't you, Wilmet?—to a shivering sense of loneliness and responsibility when we first realized the task before us.'
'I don't think I ever did,' said Wilmet; 'I never thought of mamma's not getting well, till I had grown quite used to it. It never occurred to me that our position was unusual till I heard people talking of it.'
'So much the better; but I recollect one cold winter day, soon after my father's death, reading Jacob's vow at Bethel to devote his best, if God would only give him bread to eat and raiment to wear, and longing for some assurance that we should have it—I felt so helpless, and the future so vague—and when I see how richly blessings and prosperity have flowed in on us, and look at those fine, happy, strong creatures, it seems to me like his return across the Jordan, or as if I could say, as he did at last, "The God that led me all my life through, the Angel that redeemed me from all evil, bless the lads."' And as the firelight shone upon his face, Wilmet recollected another saying about Jacob, and how the 'Angels of God met him,' but her answer sounded flat. 'Yes, it is a great comfort to see so many launched and doing well.'
'And, Wilmet, how much was owing to you! If you had not been the girl you were, we must have broken up; it could not have been done at all. Do you remember our councils over that spotted account book on Saturday nights, and our misery when Fulbert spoilt a new pair of boots in the river?'
'And your new coats! They used to weigh on my mind for months. I used to look at your elbows every evening, and reckon whether they would hold out till I had saved enough for the next.'
'Ah!' added Felix, laughing a little, 'do you remember my worst offence of all? No? My having my hair cut at Slater's—instead of letting you do it. I believe you had designs on the shilling, and that you thought me corrupted by the vanities of this world!'
'Yes, I was very hard and narrow then. John has shown it to me.'
'It could not be otherwise—you had to live in a continual state of resistance.'
'But how many mistakes we made!'
'It is those very mistakes that make me so thankful; that they should have been so many, and yet for the most part remedied, and that those boys and girls should have come out so sound-hearted, right-minded, and affectionate as all of them are, is to me as wonderful as it is merciful.'
'They could not well help it. John says it shows the force of example—that not one for whom you were responsible has gone wrong.'
'Of prayer—of being the children of the righteous, more likely,' said Felix; 'and there is a coming home, you know; I see the dawnings in Alda, poor child, though there is much to smother it. I am happier about her than ever before.'
'Poor Alda,' said Wilmet, 'I hope she will be happy in her children, though I should not like mine to be so stiff and prim, poor little dears!'
One by one Felix dwelt lovingly on the good points of each of the brothers and sisters on whom he had been gazing—speaking with an enjoyment that made Wilmet loth to leave him even for the sake of making the most of her brief time with her twin sister. When at last he recollected Alda and bade Wilmet return, blaming himself for having detained her so long, he said as she rose, 'Give me one kiss first, my Wilmet, for the sake of the old times when we worked and struggled together, and I think we tasted of the special promise to the fatherless.'
Wilmet, somewhat surprised, bent over him and gave the kiss. He held her a moment, saying, 'May God bless you, and return it into your bosom in your children.' The solemnity startled her, but the blessing was a joy to her for the rest of her life.
The sound of music drew him back to the drawing-room ere long. Alda had never heard Lance since his chorister's alto had passed from him, and everyone, even Fulbert, called for some old echo of the old times over the cracked piano. Sir Adrian had musical taste enough to be tamed and kept amiable by the domestic concert; and even Angela did her part, controlled by the resolution not to vex Felix. He indeed could take no share, except that of evident delight, and now and then his low voice chimed into one or other of his best loved choruses, but he told Alda when she regretted the lack of his tones, 'Lance was better worth hearing.'
'Let us have "Lead, kindly Light" again to-night, Clem,' said Felix, as they moved towards the Oratory. 'Little Stella will not think it a sad farewell.'
'No, indeed,' she said, holding his hand. 'I am sure we want the kindly Light; going so far away, and so young!'
The hymn sounded even more sweetly than on the first arrival, so sweet that Sir Adrian said to his wife, 'If all family prayers were like that, they would not be such a bore.'
Wilmet went home by the bridge in the carriage, taking Marilda with her, but Will and Ferdinand returned by boat. It was a splendid frosty night, and Felix came out with them as far as the terrace. Lance, who had gone down to the river, on returning found him still gazing at the glories of the stars—Sirius flashing with most dazzling brightness, and the Pleiades twinkling with their silvery mystery, and Aldebaran gazing down like a great eye.
'Still out, Fee; don't get a chill.'
'Everything is so goodly—so good—without and within doors,' he answered, 'that one hardly knows how to leave it. I wonder whether we shall recognise what our foretastes have been!'
Lance recollected how strangely that word 'foretaste' had fallen on his ear by Tranquillity Bridge as he sat in the solitude of his heavy trance of disappointment; and as his brother's face came again into the lights of the hall, something in it struck him with a sense that even then he had been far from knowing what sorrow could be.
Of course the wedding morning was a scramble, though no one beyond the family was invited, except that Dr. May brought his daughter Gertrude to act as bridesmaid. Felix, who had since the hospital meeting ceased to leave his room before breakfast, sent word that he should keep quiet till Stella was dressed, and then that she would find him in the study.
How lovely the little white Star looked may be imagined. She was quite calm and self-possessed, softly tender and loving, but too gravely serious to be excited or agitated as she went, in deep, trustful love, to meet the great unknown life, carrying about with her a certain hush of sweet gentle awe.
So in her snowy robe and veil and wreathed brow, with her modest head still bearing the long shining curls, she floated down the dark oak stair, and crossed the hall, without casting a look on those who were watching her, and knocked at the study door.
'Come in.' Felix rose to greet her, taking both her hands and kissing her through her veil. 'My Star of the East, my happy gift!' he said. 'Stella, eighteen years ago father put you two freshly christened babies into my arms. I gave dear little Theodore in his innocence back to him last Whitsuntide. I am thankful to be allowed to give you in your bridal white to the home that is to cherish you for the better Home.'
She looked up in his face, which a flush of rosy colour was restoring to something of its old self. 'Oh! brother,' she said, 'I am so glad you spoke of dear Theodore. Charlie says we may take him my flowers as soon as it is over. I wonder if he knows.'
'It may be, better than if he were here,' said Felix. 'Then it would have been a sad day for him.'
'I could not have done it,' said Stella, and lowering her voice, 'I don't know how I can have done it now. Oh, brother, nothing ever can be like you!'
'It is one of my great comforts that you have done it, my Star, my own especial child. I am glad you are the one I give away. Are they all ready?'
'I think so.' And just then Geraldine knocked to intimate that the Audley party were known to be arrived at the church, and that the clergy and choir were ready. So Stella took the arm, not clinging, lest she should hurt him, but lightly resting her fingers on it, and they came forth, he with that youthful flush of colour on his cheek, with all his scrupulous grace of attire, and with a white camellia in his coat, but with that far-away look in his eyes; and she with bent head, and deep concentrated spirit, never lifting her eyes from the ground. The bridesmaids fell in behind, first the three small nieces, Mary Harewood trotting between the other two, then the two sisters—Robina in her sedate reserve, and Angela, flushing, quivering and trembling, and never taking her eyes from Felix; and next the ill-matched pair Gertrude May and Margaret Audley, the former thrilling at the smile and clasp of the hand she had exchanged with Felix, the latter's little black eyes taking note of everything not accordant with Audley conventionalities.
Then came the rest in due order, Geraldine upon Ferdinand's arm, glad it was so strong and friendly; for this, the first home wedding, made her shiver with nervous excitement.
The elder Charles Audley, who had assisted in the twins' baptism by their dying father, and had stood as their sponsor, was standing robed at the inner archway of the tower, with Clement and William on either side, while behind were the choir, Lance leading them.
Of course the whole parish was in the seats, Miss Isabella herself, unable to help feeling that the marriage was infinitely more solemn, and full of real praise and prayer, than those whose 'simplicity' she had been wont to uphold.
No one ever forgot the quietly loving gesture with which the fatherly brother put his fair young sister into the hands of the Church to be 'given to this man,' and the movement after the trothplight up to the festally decked chancel was an exceedingly beautiful sight in itself. Mr. Audley took the licence of giving a short but beautiful address of his own on the significance and glory of holy wedlock, and then the union was crowned and sealed by the hallowed Feast; for it had not been thought fit to hurry it over out of sight beforehand, out of deference to the two baronets, who, like the children and idler gazers, left the church, and loitered outside, observing that 'this was too strong.'
After this, the signatures were to be made in the north transept that served as vestry, and it was while the movement in consequence was going on that Bernard felt a convulsive grasp on his arm, and the whispered words, 'Help me home,' were so full of suffering that he was not surprised to see his eldest brother's face deadly pale, and contracted by pain.
Ere they had moved five steps, Fulbert too was supporting Felix, and not without need, and Dr. May and Wilmet were following.
Consternation communicated itself to those around the little table. 'Felix ill!' The last Underwood that Stella Eudora ever signed herself showed her start of dismay, and Clement, who was presiding over the register book, turned pale, and gave a groan.
'God in His mercy help us! It is come!'
'I knew! I knew,' cried Angela—darting away.
'You apprehended'—began the amazed bridegroom.
'He was in some pain in the early part of the night, but slept towards morning, and was resolved to go through with it. Stay—you must write here while we know what we are about; this can't be left half done.'
The blow was known to all that sad wedding party as, instead of making a joyous procession to the great door, they found their way through the cloister to the house. The crisis that Felix had been led to expect would steal on him by slow degrees, and with full warning, had come suddenly on, accompanied with acute inflammation, producing pain so terrible to witness that the great strong Fulbert came downstairs sobbing like a child at the sight, and Geraldine was taken by both hands by Bernard and dragged away to the painting-room, with almost angry orders not to come near that door. The poor boy held her tight by her wrists, as if he feared she would disobey, reiterating, 'He said—he said you mustn't come.' Fain would John Harewood have used equally decisive measures with his wife; but neither he nor Dr. May could prevail on her to relinquish her place as foremost in the attempts at alleviation.
No one could be allowed to come even to the door who had not nerve to endure the sight of severer anguish than most of them had ever deemed possible. Clement and Angela were doing their utmost under Dr. May's directions, but Mr. Audley found himself less needed there than by poor Cherry, whom he let loose from Bernard's grip, and after sending the boy for a cordial for her, gave them both a clearer explanation of the state of the case than they had yet understood. At first she felt it hard to have been in ignorance all this time, but when Mr. Audley had helped them both to pray, she fastened upon the hope that the very suddenness and violence of the attack proved that the evil would the sooner be over and leave no ill effect.
A report was circulated that Dr. May had given some such hope, and therewith that there was some respite in the paroxysms of suffering. There was a little movement among the crushed and dismayed party who had at first straggled up to the hall and drawing-room, and sat, or stood about, as if a thunderbolt had descended among them.
Alda was the first to make any sort of move, impelled by the fear of her husband's impatience, and recollecting the guests. Sir Robert and his daughter-in-law were stiff and uncomfortable, wondering that things should have been allowed to go so far, and wishing themselves away. Alda looked about for her sisters, but could only find Robina, who assisted in proposing that the strangers should come and eat. Sir Robert, on this, uttered polite condolences, begging that his carriage might be sent for, but consenting to come into the dining-room.
Where were the bridal pair? Poor young things, they were found in one of the hall window seats, where they could catch sounds from the sick room, all crushed up together, his arms round her, and her head, with wreath and veil pushed aside, on his shoulder, as if she were passively submitting to such support as he strove to afford.
'My dear children,' began Sir Robert, as they stood up startled, 'it is indeed a mournful turn that this festive occasion has taken, but I am relieved to hear that the patient is somewhat relieved, and you will, as Lady Vanderkist suggests, assume your places at the table. Or perhaps our bride will first change her dress, as it may be better to hasten your departure.'
'I can't go away.'
But Sir Robert with his conventionalities, Mrs. Audley with her proprieties, nay the Captain with his morbid horror of everything painful, all came round, declaring that Charlie was bound to take his bride away; they need not go far; they might wait where their rooms were engaged, but go they must; and appeals were made to both Vanderkists on the necessity.
There however quiet, gentle Stella became wild, nay almost frantic. She broke away from her husband, whose 'You shall do exactly as you please' was drowned in the authoritative commands of his grandfather. 'No! No!' she cried,' I will not go! No one can take me, while my brother is so ill,' and she burst into an irrepressible passion of weeping, leaning against the tall post of balusters, and pushing Charlie away when he would have taken her hand. 'No, no, don't, I don't want any one. I won't go away from my brother,' and she flung her arm round the post as if she fancied she would be forcibly dragged away, and not so much as hearing, 'This is very amiable feeling,' from Sir Robert, or if she did, it distracted her the more, while Charlie stood in utter perplexity, for it was of no use to protest that he did not mean to take her away, when it only on the one side made his grandfather order him the more decidedly, and Stella cling the more desperately whenever he tried to approach, scarcely restraining her screams as her agitation became uncontrollable. 'No, no, let me alone, trouble only comes with me—I want no one but my brother!'
A step on the stairs startled her into breathless silence. It was Clement. 'Hush, Stella,' he said, sternly and shortly. 'Felix wants you and Charlie.'
'He heard,' some one said reproachfully.
'Yes. Don't detain her,' he added, as Alda would have modified her dishevelment by removing the wreath and veil. 'I don't know how long this interval may last.'
Stella, instantly controlled by the home voice, and ashamed and grieved at having disturbed her brother, made no resistance to Charlie's taking her trembling hand as Clement preceded them to the room, all silent now save for the constrained breathing which showed the interval to be far from painless. The ashy face of suppressed suffering recalled to Stella her watch by that same spot during the suspense about Theodore, and she dropped on her knees, trying to hide her tears and stifle her sobs in the bed-clothes. Felix after laying his hand on the poor little head held it out to Charlie, and evidently commanding his voice with great difficulty said, 'I did not think this would have come till you had her safe away, Charlie.'
'I am very sorry,' was all the poor bridegroom could say.
'I am very sorry,' repeated Felix, his hand resting on her hair again, 'but as it can't be helped, I think it will come harder to her if she is taken away just now. This can't go on long as it is now. Ask Dr. May. And when you see—'
He paused from inability to achieve a steady tone, and Charlie answered, 'I never meant to go. I'll stay till you are better, as long as ever she likes, indeed I will, my sweet—' but again she seemed to shiver away from him with a sort of repugnance, which Felix perceived. More faintly he said, 'You'll be his happy gift, my child, I'm so glad to leave you to—Oh! go now!'
The fingers grew rigid and seemed to push her away. Wilmet half lifted, half thrust her into Charlie's arms. He almost carried her, pressing her face against him that she might not catch a glimpse of those spasms and uncontrollable writhings of anguish that were returning. The door was shut, and the young creatures cowered in the gallery in one another's arms, catching the sad sounds that neither patience nor resolute will could prevent. Stella slid down on her knees, and Charlie was fain to do the same, thankful that she let him hold her in his arm instead of repelling him.
'There! it is all quiet. He must be better again,' he whispered after a time, and this was confirmed by Angela coming to send out a prescription of the doctor's. The chill look of her white dress suggested to Charlie to say, 'You will be as cold as ice in that whiteness, my Star. Suppose you took it off, while I go and tell Sir Robert that nothing shall move us till he is all right again. You couldn't think me such a brute.'
Poor little Stella held up her tear-stained face for a kiss with a vague sense of having been naughty and wanting forgiveness.
'You'll come back to me when you have dressed! I'll come and wait up here again.'
'Do. I'll be quick. They can't send us away, can they?'
'I'll see them shot first,' then repenting the schoolboy defiance of the words: 'No, Stella, I'm your husband, you know, and can guard you. I had no intention of going, not a bit. Only they can't see when one is a man, and they frightened you with the noise, poor little thing! If I tell them he wishes it, no one can say a word. Don't be long.'
He nearly walked over a pair sitting on the stairs, too dejected to heed anything, namely, Lance and Gertrude, drawn together by the fellow feeling of being both too unhappy to speak or be spoken to, yet finding a sort of companionship in wretchedness as they listened and caught fragmentary tidings from above.
Charlie showed his manhood in quiet self-assertion. He told his grandfather that it would not be right to take his wife away, and that her brother wished them to stay; and though this was viewed as very ill-judged, there was no gainsaying it, especially as his uncle had come down decidedly of the same opinion.
Geraldine had likewise descended. The sanguine view she had contrived to take up had given her strength to take up her necessary part as mistress of the house making farewells and excuses. Marilda had, she found, swept off all the children to the Harewoods' house, including Gerald, who had allowed Ferdinand to carry him away, and in the present state of things she could only be thankful he was beyond hearing and questioning.
As the hours passed, and winter twilight gave way to early night, there was something of a lull. The alleviations had not been entirely without effect, and Dr. May felt obliged to go home, promising that he or his son, or both, would come early on the morrow. When Felix understood this, he asked whether Gertrude were still in the house, and hearing that she was, begged for her presence for a moment.
'Most certainly,' said her father. 'Where is she?'
'She has been sitting on the stairs all day with Lance,' Angela answered.
'With Lance?' Felix nearly smiled.
Dark as were the stairs, there they still were. Lance had executed numerous errands, and had made Gertrude swallow some tea, but they had not spoken ten words to one another. There Dr. May found his daughter, and, with a word or two of warning and preparation, led her in. She could not see much, for the light was shielded from the face, and only threw up the shadow of the cross and the angel's hovering wings on the ceiling above. The hand that lay on the sheet, curved, but not with repose, closed on hers with a 'krampfhaft' pressure. 'You have been comforting Lance,' said Felix. 'Thank you.'
'I couldn't,' she faltered, more overcome by voice than look, it was so thin and weak.
'You prayed! You will pray! "Each on his cross still let us hang awhile." Pray that I may not let go. "Suffer us not at our last hour,"' his lips moved on—'Pray that for me.'
'Indeed! indeed I will!'
'Thank you; it will be your greatest kindness. And one day remember that wish—that one wish. I wanted to wish you good-bye. God bless you. Kiss me once, my sister Gertrude.'
She could not have staid a moment longer than to give and receive that kiss. She almost fled into the room where her wraps were, and there cried as if her heart would break, feeling scarcely able to bear it when Robina came to see whether she had warm things enough.
But Gertrude had a twelve miles' drive with her father, and in it she experienced as never before, the depths of his tenderness and delicacy of his sympathy, and he found what were his once wilful petted child's yearnings towards that lofty noble character just out of reach, yearnings by his own forbearance just not stirred into active conscious love, such as would have left her heart entirely widowed. For in reply to the questions she scarce durst utter, the Doctor declared plainly that his own hope was small, though there still remained the possibility of a turn for the better, and Tom's more modern science might have further resources.
This was what he had left with the family, and most of them turned 'not hopeless' into hopeful, more especially as the most distressing form of suffering had not recurred, though even now Felix begged that Cherry might not see him, and feebly tried to send Wilmet home, but nothing would induce her to leave him. Her whole self seemed bound up in the single thought of ministering to him, and she was almost incapable of attending to remonstrance from husband or doctor on the special risks in her case, as if her strong will had mastered her very understanding, and they feared that to insist might do her more harm than to let her have her way. Clement kept equally close at hand, resolved that she should never be alone with the patient to bear the first brunt of those appalling attacks of suffering, and Angela was never further off than the next room, with the door open.
Those downstairs achieved a conventional cheerfulness. Stella was there in her ordinary black dress, and it was not easy to realize that she was Mrs. Audley, while Charley hung over her, petting her, though very anxious to be useful.
The chief use to which Geraldine wanted to put him or any one else, was to entertain Adrian, who looked as if he thought the illness of the master of the house a special injury and act of inhospitality to himself, and was, besides, much disposed to be rude to Ferdinand.
'Can't you take him into the long room and play billiards?' she asked Bernard.
'You'd hear the balls up in Felix's room. I never saw such a selfish brute.'
Bernard had found his Helot at last. 'Best way would be to get Fulbert to take him somewhere to smoke. I don't suppose he'll go for me.'
The somewhere was Sibby's sitting-room, and when Sir Adrian was carried off, Alda, Geraldine, Ferdinand, and Marilda had rather a comfortable talk over old St Oswald's Buildings days, in which Mr. Audley presently joined them.
The calm lasted, so that every one except the three actual nurses went to bed peacefully; but before the morning broke there was worse distress than ever. The worst attacks there had been at all set in, lasting longer, and with far less power of mitigation from the remedial measures, which seemed to be losing more effect every time, till the watchers scarcely durst wish to see the sufferer begin to revive only to undergo fresh torture.
That terrible morning broke Wilmet down. She had gone through all with unremitting energy and unflinching courage, but when Professor May had arrived, and brought some new anæsthetic, so that there was some relief and the strain slackened, she just crept into the next room with Angela and fainted away, only reviving to swoon again as soon as she tried to move.
The doctors were unanimous in sending her away, even while scarcely yet conscious, to her own house, and she was too faint to make any resistance or remonstrance. About an hour later, Ferdinand and Marilda, who were waiting in the billiard-room for the report of Professor May's opinion, were auditors of the following conversation, evidently the end of something that had been going on all the way from Major Harewood's house:
'Adrian! it is absolute cruelty! Why cannot you go alone, and send home the children?'
'Oh I daresay, and leave you to sentiment with that nigger fellow.'
'You need not have insulted me;' and her silk rustled upstairs, his steps following.
Marilda's eyes flashed and gave utterance to a fierce whisper. 'The cowardly ruffian! Can't you horsewhip him?' clenching her fist as she spoke.
But Ferdinand's dark face had indeed reddened, and his nostrils quivered, though not at the personal offence, as he muttered under his breath: 'To shoot him were the only cure for her! God forgive me for the thought, but to think of any woman in such hands, and to be the person most entirely unable to defend her!'
'I forgot! Of course you could only make it worse, but poor dear Alda!—It drives one out of one's senses;' and tears of anger were in her eyes.
'It stirs the devil within, and makes me wish I had never forgiven him,' said Ferdinand between his teeth.
'You need not forgive him this! I don't.'
After a few moments' pause Fernan said, 'The only service I can do her is to go away. Would that make him consent to her remaining?'
'Oh! we can't spare you. What shall I do with Gerald without you or Mary Vanderkist? He is always whining for Cherry!'
'Of course I can't bear to be away, but if I excite this idiotical jealousy, what can I do but take myself off? I'll go to London, and you can telegraph every hour. Go up and tell Alda—Lady Vanderkist, I mean. Casually ask what I can do for her.'
'That would stir him up again. And I don't think it would be of any use. He doesn't want to stay here, and means spite.'
'Then she could insist on staying.'
'She would be afraid. You see when people have used one another as they used you, it can't help rankling.'
'I ought not to have come here, but of course I thought the whole thing as utterly gone by with them as with myself.'
Marilda looked up with a curious expression of blushing gladness that made him exclaim,' How like you are to what you were when first I saw you!'
She blushed still more.
'That time!' he said, musing. 'Did you ever think I used you wrongly?' he suddenly added.
'I never did. I knew the difference between myself and Alda.'
'Nay, let me tell you, I never should have seen how beautiful she was, unless—I suppose it wasn't true, now—'
'What wasn't true?'
'That you and Felix—'
'Felix! No indeed! He is far too independent and disinterested. Who could have told you? You won't say? Not Edgar?'
'No. It was that poor lady herself.'
'Well,' said Marilda, infinitely shocked, 'I do call that wicked!' and as her mind glanced back to all the pain of those two years, she added, 'What did she say? Don't mind telling me. I'm old enough now.'
'Are you?' he said, with a quick glance of his dark eyes that made her glow again, and he continued: 'She gave me to understand that there was an old inclination between you and him, and that your father had such a regard for him as to be likely to yield if nothing more advantageous came in his way.'
'If you had only asked poor Edgar! Well! perhaps she flattered herself it was so! Yet, what could have put it into her head.'
'You know the rest, and how I was dazzled both by her beauty and the charm of her connection, but for years past the sense of my huge mistake has been upon me; yet till Felix came into possession here, I still thought it was his punctilious feeling alone that kept you apart.'
'As if he had ever cared for me except in a cousinly, brotherly sort of way! Did you think that was what made me hush up poor Edgar's affair, though indeed I never felt so thankful to any one as to you for having saved that secret.'
'Do you know what your generosity made me wish, though I never durst speak it before? That you would forget all these mistakes and forgive me, and come back to what things were before that misunderstanding.'
'Oh!' cried Marilda, with a long breath, 'you can't really mean it.'
'What else should I mean? If you will only forgive and overlook.'
'Don't talk in that way,' cried Marilda. 'Why I never cared for anyone else, and always have—but'—breaking off in the midst—'hark, there are wheels. That poor thing will be gone.'
'You had better go up and tell her.'
'Not this—I can't. It would only make him more savage; besides at such a time.'
'True. No—only let them know I'll go. I'm gone. No, I can't leave the place till I've heard his opinion—but I'll go over to Ewmouth. I'll see you again and settle—only don't let her be dragged away.'
Marilda was obliged to go up, with the vaguest ideas as to what to say, in a case that even she felt to be delicate, but on coming to the scene of action, she found that the words she had overheard amounted to no more than an ebullition of temper. Sir Adrian did not wish to leave behind him a character for brutality, and since he could plead an appointment and escape from the house of mourning, he could endure leaving his wife to it; and an excuse for yielding was afforded by the maid who, coming up with the two little girls, brought word that Mrs. Harewood was asking for my Lady.
So Mary and Sophy were sent back to Ironbeam, their father went to meet his pheasants, and their mother hurried back to her twin, all that old tenderness reviving instinctively so as to render the sisterly contact the greatest comfort then possible to either. Ferdinand had taken care to inform the departing Sir Adrian that he was about to leave Vale Leston, and was in fact only waiting for the opinion of the London doctor who had seen Felix before, and for whom, with Tom May's sanction, he had telegraphed.
Gratitude to him for having devised this, and trust to further advice buoyed Cherry up, as she watched in the painting-room, giving orders, answering inquiries, and never swerving from hope and that intense prayer for her brother's restoration, which no one could discourage, nor even qualify in vehemence. Why should not a life so valuable be given back to her entreaties and those of many another suppliant? Yet Mr. Audley, going backwards and forwards between her and the patient, could not but be struck by observing that Felix himself rather allowed than demanded the supplications for recovery, and though extremity of pain often wrung from him cries for relief and sobs for mercy, yet in the calmer periods these became sighs for the power of enduring his cross better, and of not loosening his hold on his Saviour, and sometimes even the moan had more of praise than of plaint. He was still quite sensible, but the intervals between the paroxysms were so far from painless that he never showed any wish to see or speak to any but those immediately about him, namely, Clement and Angela, with Lance and Robina as supplementary helpers, and Mr. Audley, when he could bear it.
Tom May waited all day, doing his best till his London friend came, and could do nothing but confirm his treatment, and agree that the shadow of hope was not yet absolutely impossible, though human means were unavailing. However, between exhaustion and a fresh form of anodyne, a sort of stupor was induced towards the evening, and this was again a relief, at least to those who durst call it sleep.
Ferdinand profited by it to tear himself away according to his promise, and Marilda betook herself and her much aggrieved maid to the Rood, carrying the children with her, to spend the day, though there was no room to lodge them at night; poor Gerald submitting passively, as the fresh misfortune of losing both Fernan and Mary Vanderkist fell on him. Marilda's quarters were left to Sister Constance, who arrived at the appointed time, to find herself less needed at the Priory than the cottage, where the greeting she received from the sorrowful and anxious Lady Vanderkist was no small contrast to the manner in which Alda Underwood had requited her services.
The beneficent torpor lasted far into the night, and in some way or other all, save Clement and Angela, consented to take a certain amount of rest. Even Angela, though refusing to lie down, must have dozed in her chair by the fire, for as her perception gradually returned to her, she heard broken tones from Felix, and saw Clement standing over him. The first words that fully met her ear were the conclusion of what had gone before. 'There! stained, weak, failing, erring, more than I can say—more than I can recollect—I can only trust all to the washing in my Saviour's precious blood. Let me hear His message.'
The deep, thankful intensity of the gaze, looking far beyond Clement standing over him and pronouncing the Absolution, impressed Angela with strange awe.
Full of the past, all shuddering twilight,
Man waits his hour with upward eye,
The golden keys in love are brought,
That he may hold by them and die.
It was a face of love, eagerness, absorption, that no one could ever forget, as the voice of pardon was listened to with folded hands.
She dared not move till there was again need of her assistance. When she could utter a word to Clement, it was: 'Is not he better?' but Clement shook his head. Still the last doctor's advice had enabled the worst part of the suffering to be so far kept in abeyance, that before that morning's dawn the Feast could be held in the sick chamber, among those whom Clement ventured to call together for it. The greater calm much encouraged Cherry, and she went away cheered by the face that could still give her a smile, declaring that Felix did not look worse than when he was bloodless after the accident.
Both she and Bernard hugged their hope. Even when, before the day was out, all the family knew of Tom May's verdict that those symptoms had set in which extinguished all chance of recovery without a miracle; still those two upheld one another in shutting their eyes to the inference, and continued to rejoice in the comparative relief from the heartrending spasms of the previous days, while others knew but too well that this was only the token that the struggle of the constitution was over.
Other forms of suffering had set in, but attention was sometimes free. Ferdinand and Marilda, though ashamed of having fallen into their engagement at such a time, could not help believing that to him at least it would give pleasure, and it had been breathed into Mr. Audley's ear. In one of these pauses of tranquillity Felix was told of it, and said with a smile, 'That is well. God is giving me every wish of my heart—"Grant thee thy heart's desire—"'
For his words had a tendency to flow into psalms and prayers, which the others took up and finished; but he was generally quite sensible, though sometimes restless and sometimes torpid. He asked for Wilmet, and hearing she had gone home, and that Alda was with her, seemed satisfied. He murmured something about Sir Adrian, and on learning his departure, said, 'I meant to have spoken to him—I don't suppose I could—some one tell him—he must be kind to Alda and the little ones—poor Alda!'
The day passed in this manner, and when at its close the familiar sounds indicated shutting up for the night, he showed an expectation of good nights. Geraldine came, and was charmed with the calmed, soothed countenance; she kissed him and told him he was better, and would sleep. He answered, 'Thank God, yes; thank God for you, my Chérie.'
Clement was afraid to let her agitate herself or him, and led her away to her own door, appealing to him all the way whether the worst were not over. He trusted that it was.
To Stella Felix gave only a blessing and good-night, but he thanked Charlie again for letting her remain, and to Bernard he said what the lad at the moment thought wandering, 'You'll swim for yourself now your plank is gone.'
There were no such positive farewells to those immediately about him. He depended most for aid both bodily and spiritual on Clement, but he took the most notice of Angela, often thanking her, with some tender name, even while he seemed continually drifting further and further out of reach.
Life is strongly bound into a frame scarcely at the midway of age, and the change came so slowly that Cherry had begun to say that when the Epiphany was past, the day of his father's death, she was sure the corner would be turned. He was very weak, but he had been as weak before.
Weak? Yes. The mind was failing now, not the soul. The ears still opened to prayer, the lips joined in it, the speech was of another world. "The hours of the cross—when will it be over?" Or the wedding might guide the thought to "the Bride prepared." "The white array"—"the diamonds—the jewels He will make up—the emerald rainbow round about the Throne."
Falterings very feeble ensued, as if he were talking to his father: 'Indeed I tried. I think they are all coming. Father, may I come now? Isn't it done?'
That was the last word they caught distinctly, except fragments of prayer, before the long hour when he lay on Clement's breast, each long labouring breath heaving up as though the last. Lance had fetched Cherry, telling her Felix was going. He had had to change the word to dying, actually dying, before she could understand its force. Then she stood, gripping his arm, at the foot of the bed, while nothing was heard but those gasps, and the continued prayer of Mr. Audley, until the moment came when he bade the Christian soul depart into the hands of the Father of Spirits.
That was just as the winter night was darkening on the Saturday evening.