The Pillars of the House; Or, Under Wode, Under Rode, Vol. 2 (of 2)

  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  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 littleskiff across the river, and went up to the Priory, where only oneor two upper windows showed a pale light behind the blinds. All wasintensely still, as the garden-door yielded to his hand, and he crossedthe dark hall, then mounted the stairs, which creaked under his tread,and, pausing in the gallery, seemed drawn irresistibly to the door ofthe room which had been the centre of all their thoughts and cares.

  His cautious touch of the lock was responded to from within. There wasenough light in the room to show the carved Angel, and beneath it thesilent 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 setof fingers on William's arm, he drew him into his own room where theystood for some minutes, neither knowing how to speak, till the churchclock striking broke the silence, and Will said:

  'Clement, I have taken upon me to silence the knell--on Wilmet'saccount. John would not let you hear how alarmed we were last night,thinking you had gone through enough, but they say such a shock asthat bell would be, might do all the harm imaginable. Sister Constancethinks she will pull through, but she has been fancying Felix wascalling her, and poor John was quite overpowered.'

  'Our other pillar!' said Clement, dreamily.

  'She is better,' repeated Will. 'Sister Constance would not let hergive 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 neverattempted to rest from that Wednesday morning to Saturday night.

  'I don't know,' he answered, passing his hand over his face. 'I'vebeen a great many hours in bed, but there's no getting away from thesense for a moment,' said he, thawing under Will's sympathy, shownmore in gesture than word. 'I don't seem able to care at this momenteven for poor Wilmet and John. Everything seems swallowed up in thisone. I've known these six months it was coming, and discussed it withhimself, yet it comes to me as stupendous and appalling as if I hadnever thought of it before. The one that there was no doing, no livingwithout! 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, andone 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 Iwas so done up, that it seems a perfect blank. I must have frightenedSibby, for I remember her scared eyes, and then I fancy Fulbert andLance were dosing me with soup, or wine, or something, and I went tobed; but what they said about any one, I can't recollect. I'll askLance.'

  Lance sat up in bed, after a sleep he had fallen into towards themorning. Poor Cherry! he said, he had led her back to her roomperfectly passive, and put her in her chair, but she seemed turned tostone. 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 mechanicalglare like paralysis. The suddenness was practically as great to her asif Felix had been drowned at once. Mr. Audley had advised them to giveher time to recover from her stunned condition, and she had been leftto Stella, who had last reported that her stupefaction had passed intoheavy slumber as soon as her head was on the pillow.

  Robina had been entirely taken up with Angela, whose fatigue was almostas great as Clement's, and who had besides caught a bad cold andtoothache on the wedding-day. Her prostration had taken the form ofviolent weeping, which Lance had heard half the night, and now, thoughall was quiet, the brothers durst not run the risk of waking her.

  Indeed, when Mr. Page looked in with a somewhat more cheery account ofMrs. Harewood, he advised that no attempt should be made to disturbeither sister, but that, in especial, Geraldine's room should bedarkened, and she should be allowed to lie and doze, without beingroused, under peril of mischief to brain or nerves.

  As to Angela, she awoke soon enough, and then nothing would keep herfrom getting up and wandering about in restless misery and much bodilydiscomfort, 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 mournfulhours. The loss to her was as of a parent, and no father could havebeen more beloved than her "Brother," but the change in her life hadmade it just not the utter desolation it was to the home sisters, andthe strength of the new bond, and the soothing bliss of her husband'scaresses, lifted her up enough to make her sympathy a support. She hadnever been a childish girl, and the last remnant of childishness seemedto have passed away in that struggle on the stairs. Her brightness hadalways been pensive and subdued, and in the time of distress there wasa kind of lamp-light lustre in her looks, words, and ways that relieveddejection wherever she went, while either her powers were greatlydeveloped or only had full scope when she and Robina had to share allthe feminine cares of the stricken family.

  That leaden state of Geraldine's continued the next morning, thoughshe rang her bell mechanically for Sibby at her usual hour, came down,poured out breakfast, and ordered dinner as usual, then returned toher painting-room. If addressed, she gave a vacant look and a briefmatter-of-fact reply, and volunteered nothing, nor attempted anyemployment. She seemed neither to care nor comprehend when told thatWilmet had had a quiet night, sat mazed and unhearing when Clementread, Angela roamed in and out like an unquiet spirit, as her brothersand sisters consulted in her presence, all feeling what it was to seeher for the first time devoid of her own peculiar comforter.

  Stella watched over her incessantly, and sat writing letters in thepainting-room. Poor little bride--what letters they were to bear thedate of her eighteenth birthday and her first Stella Eudora Audley's!About one o'clock, however, there was a shuffling sound of feet, arattling of the lock, and little Gerald came breathlessly stumblinginto the room, and in a moment was clasping his arms round Geraldine,'Cherie, Cherie! you aren't gone too. Keep me, keep me!'

  'My Gerald, my boy, my own!' He was on her lap, in her arms, and theywere kissing each other with passionate fervour. 'Oh! Cherie, my backdoes 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 hiscouch, where she hung over him, the dumb spell broken by force of thelittle 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 isdearest, my boy, his boy.'

  'Oh! please don't cry, Cherie, please,' and he stroked her face, whileStella was only too glad to see the tears. 'My back is better now, andI 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 againclung to her, burying his face on her neck, 'O Cherie, Cherie, why dopeople 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 allover, he implored her not to let him be taken away.

  'Is Gerald here?' asked Clement, opening the door, 'ah! yes, John, herehe is!'

  'No, no one is going to take you! Oh! Clem! John, is this a fit! mydarling! Speak to him.'

  'My dear,' said John, 'no one w
ants to take you away, I am onlythankful 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 letme go.'

  'No indeed, Gerald,' said Clement in his sweet voice, as he smoothedthe tumbled hair, and as the boy did not recoil, took him on his strongarm and knee, 'no one can take you from us. You are our child, Cherie'sand 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 hislittle frame, and drawing deep sobbing breaths, but his brown eyesshowing his exceeding repose and confidence in his tall uncle's arms,and with Cherie'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 thecare 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 ashe was, he was precocious enough to be too honourable for personalaccusations, and Major Harewood respected him. 'No, my dear, I will notvex you with questions. I am exceedingly grieved at the treatment youhave 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 littlebrothers, and asks them not to wake your father. Alda seems to havecarried her back to her old days, but she is really better this morningand quite calm. I must hasten back.'

  He was very pale and worn, but had a look of relief, as he wrungCherry's hand without trusting himself to another word. Clementfollowed him to exchange a few more sentences on the blessing thechild's return had been in rousing Cherry, but he was thoroughlyangered and vexed at the usage his sons had evidently inflicted ontheir guest.

  Poor child, he would have been far better off taking his chance amidall the home distress than dragged off to the tender mercies of hisnatural enemies. Marilda had received him as a sort of prey of herown, and resolved to win his heart while doing a real service byundertaking the care of the children, but the three boys were all ofgenera 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. Asshe had seized him officiously without asking counsel, she had notbeen cautioned on the peculiar treatment he required, and Ferdinandnever 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 hisvoluntary exile, he had no protector, and matters became far worse whenMarilda had removed to the Rood, intending the children to spend thedays there with her.

  The first day had disgusted Kester and Edward with her parlour and herbabyish games, and they refused to go thither again, or else rushedhome as soon as her bonbons failed. Gerald could not walk so far, andno one remembered to take him, while Marilda, hurt at her ill successwith the ungrateful boys, absorbed in tidings from the Priory, and insending them on to her mother and Fernan, and provided with a verydifferent object of life from the adoption of Edgar's boy, was morerelieved than disappointed at their non-appearance. The cottage andnursery were disorganized by the mother's illness, and the two boysexercised unlimited tyranny over their victim. Kester, two yearsolder than Gerald, and with twice his strength, could inflict all thecruelties by which the young male animal delights to test his power.The little wretch had Harewood wit enough for the invention of horridbugbears, frightful to the nervous temperament he deemed cowardice.Between these, and the torment of being pushed, pinched, drummed, andhunted with ruthless violence, together with a mind confused as towhether all he loved, Felix, Cherie, Lance and all, had not vanishedlike his father, poor Gerald had come to such misery that, on beingtold that cousin Marilda had sent for a great new Locomotive, namedFiery Dragon, to carry him away right in the boiler, he could bear itno longer. He had certified himself from the window that the Prioryat least still existed, had struggled down that giddy horror thestairs (where indeed Kester had once already goaded him down with abroomstick), and when once alone, awakening to his prairie resources,had made his way to the road, on seeing no means of passing the riverto the garden, and had crept along, sitting down to rest, till seeinga carter boy with his sleek horses on the road, he had coaxed him togive him a ride on the broad back of one, and thus had arrived at thegarden gate, made his way in, again achieved the staircase, and foundhis refuge at last in his Cherie's arms, not, however, till his systemhad received shocks enough to throw him sadly back. He was stiff inevery limb, and wearied to excess, but slightly fevered, and hauntedwith terrors none the less miserable because imaginary. Nothing soothedhim, 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 herchild's necessities preventing it from rising up to crush her.

  Major Harewood might permit licence, but he was thoroughly master, andpresently he brought up his culprits, shame-faced and tear-stainedafter their first castigation, and dictated their sobbing but sullenapology. The benefit to them, and to all whom they might have bulliedin the future, might be great, but the scene was dreadful to thesufferer, who shook from head to foot, and when bidden to shake hands,held out his little white fingers with tremor that grieved more thanit surprised the Major after the confession he had extorted, of hairpulled to make the scar bleed, of ambushes in dark corners, of thestimulus of the gig whip to quicken the steps.

  He sent Mr. Page to inspect the victim, who was pronounced to be on theverge of nervous fever, so that Cherry and Lance had to devote theirwhole 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 realor imaginary horrors.

  Was it a burthen? It might seem one, but such anxiety was the bestdistraction, the child's improvement the best earthly solace of whichthe sick and laden heart was susceptible.

  The unmarried woman seldom escapes a widowhood of the spirit There issure to be some one, parent, brother, sister, friend, more comfortableto her than the day, with whom her life is so entwined that the wrenchof parting leaves a torn void never entirely healed or filled, andthis is above all the case when the separation is untimely, and thedesolation is where lifelong hopes and dependence have been gathered up.

  Thus it was with Geraldine. Her brother had been the medium throughwhich earth had love, joy, or interest for her. He was gone, and afterher first annihilation, she mourned less externally than some of theothers, because she knew she should mourn for life.

  She did not weep nor bewail herself, but when not engrossed by herboy, she sat silent, inert, crushed. However she responded to allkindness, sadly but gratefully, and Mr. Audley soon found that thefittest way to cheer her was to lead her to the dear reminiscences ofher 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 darkeyes, and sleepily listening, soothed by the low calm voices in whichthe dear old days were called up, and Mr. Audley was told the detailsof Felix's doings and sayings in the years of his absence. And out ofsuch memories seemed to rise upon the sister strength, serenity, and asense of unbroken love, as though Felix were still her chief comforter,even as when he used to rock his baby. The sorrow was unappeasable, andexternal words even of the highest comfort fell cold on her ear, thoughshe tried to accept them, but to recall the thoughts and promisesthrough her brother's value for them gave them life, and quickened herinto the endeavour to attend to all he would have wished to be done forthe others.

  Angela, unwell with a heavy feverish cold and pain in the face, couldby no means be kept still, wandering about like a perturbed spirit,trying all sorts of occupations, but never purs
uing them for fiveminutes together. When her Hepburn friends came to see her, she sentdown for answer a fierce impatient 'I can't,' which Robina of coursetranslated more civilly. The good ladies were greatly moved and full ofsympathy, eager to tell of the exceeding sorrow of the whole parish,and in the midst, Angela, in her aimless changes of purpose, came intothe room. Miss Isabella's kind arms were held out, but she backed outof them, and when after some more kind expressions the visitor added,'certainly, whatever differences existed, we all feel that your dearbrother was truly one of the elect,' Angela startled her with a sort ofshriek--'Miss Isa, don't go on! I won't have it! You don't know what aten thousand times better Christian than any of us you are patronizing.You and your--your--your (Robina was afraid she said cant) have goneand 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 inexpressiblyshocked, and Robina tried to plead ungovernable grief that knew notwhat it uttered. The kind ladies excused readily, only begging to besent for in case her mind should turn towards them, a contingencyjust now most unlikely; for of all names poor Angela seemed to loathenone so much as Hepburn, and she absolutely gave way to a fretful fitof scolding when Clement gratefully mentioned their consideration inundertaking 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 brotherferry 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, Geraldinewas sitting by the fire with little Gerald on her lap, murmuring somestory 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 infrom the church. As the Sister advanced something long and black reareditself out of a dark corner, and clasped her round the waist, cryingout, '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 wordswere. 'Gently, Angel, gently,' said Cherry, and Robina was preparedto unfasten her like a wild creature, but Sister Constance, tenderlykissing the hot forehead, said, 'Softly, my poor child, we will seeabout it.'

  'Don't see about it!' cried Angela, in the childish phrase ofimpatience. '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 itsauthority. 'You know you have given up your claim.'

  'Oh! I was misled! I was blind! I did not know! I was mad; but you'llforgive--you will let me come.'

  'Only our Mother Superior and the chaplain can judge whether you canbe taken back. Nothing can be done in this sudden way. We will talk itover quietly by-and-by. Now, my dear, let me speak to your sisters.'

  Subdued by her tone, Angela stood aside, and after the greeting, Robinacollected her letters and went away to her Willie.

  Sister Constance was little changed since she had come in among thedesolate children eighteen years ago. That which had taken away heryouth and sunshine had been long previous, and there was littlenoticeable alteration except that each year which carried her furtherfrom the agitation of grief confirmed her habits, strengthened herhope, and added to her serenity and sweetness. As she sat down, Angeladropped on the floor, leaning against her black serge dress, whileher gentle stroking hand on the coils of hair must have been almostmagnetic, for it was long since the girl had spent so many minutes intranquillity, as while the Sister and Cherry talked over her head.

  First as to Wilmet, who was rallying the forces of her sound health andconstitution. Throughout, Sister Constance said the presence of hertwin sister had done more good than anything else. When nothing was soneeded as quiet and sleep, Alda had lain down by her side and strokedand fondled her, and she had forgotten all that had passed since thetwo fair heads had last rested beside one another, laid the invincibleweight of sorrow on her, to the account of the earliest sorrow ofher life, and when disturbed by her boys' voices, called them by thenames of her brothers, and yet she had never failed in recognition ofher husband. She was now quite herself, only so weak that she shrankfrom thought or speech, and merely rested in Alda's presence. Cherryhad hardly hitherto comprehended how nearly both their pillars ofthe house had gone together, and she could now feel thankful, thoughmore for John's sake than with the sense that any loss could makemuch difference to herself, and much more did she care to hear SisterConstance express her admiration of the calm victorious beauty of thebrow she had first seen on that dark confused winter evening when thetask was just beginning which was at last laid down. She had beenstruck by the identity of the countenance. The man of four-and-thirtyhad lost none of the candour and purity of the boy; the lad of sixteenhad already much of the grave steadfast sweetness of the man. Shethought they would know him in the Resurrection by that look.

  The talk came only too soon to an end. With the precision of a womanliving under discipline, the Sister watched the clock, and rose up fiveminutes before it struck, saying that her time would be up by the timeshe was put across the river. Geraldine kissed her in acquiescence, butAngela pursued her into the gallery, and tried to drag her to her ownroom, 'I must talk to you, I want to tell you how I came to send backmy medal!'

  'My dear, I cannot stay. Major Harewood must be set free to go to hisdinner.'

  'Only five seconds, to beg you to manage! I must confess to FatherWilloughby.'

  'Angela, you know enough of us to know that it is not allowable tolinger 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 hungover the archway leading to the long room and the oratory beyond. Awedby this ruthless silencing, she could only follow spaniel-like to thedrawing-room, where William had told Sister Constance she would findhim, and he was standing over the fire talking to Robina.

  Allowing them a moment for their farewells, Sister Constance put herarm 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 ownheart, 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 beentotally unreal and unpractical, though with a sound theology andfitful aspirations for better things when she should have had her swing.

  When religion _such as she had made it_ proved wholly inadequate toher need, her friend's influence led her to the central Verity wherealone rest could be found. Then having brought herself to the senseof individual pardon through faith, she discarded all besides, hotlyrevenging herself on what she took for impediments, and striving tostir up that assurance of forgiveness which was all feeling by allexternal means. The discovery of the inconsistency of her guides,and the knowledge of Felix's condition had come upon her at the sametime, and the latter had blotted out everything else. During theensuing weeks everything was lost in the sight of her brother's fatalsuffering, all through her own ungovernable levity. The sting she hadsmothered in the vague _en masse_ repentance which made an unsortedheap of her sins, and lavished hard names on it, now came forth with abarb of poisoned acuteness. For those two months devoted attendance onher brother had been her whole religion, but there was that about himwhich always made the endeavour to please him no small training, howmuch more when he was on the verge of the River.

  He did not preach or argue, he was simply himself, and the constantendeavour to ascertain his doings and understand his expressionrevealed to her much of his mind, all the more perhaps because shenever spoke, she hardl
y thought, she only received impressions.And above all, that upward look with which he met that last fullabsolution, that expression of intense acceptance and gratitudeof sight rather than faith, had dwelt on her ever since, notmerely casting out the memory of the pain-wrung features, but evenovermastering the image of the grand monumental placidity which hadsettled down on the countenance at rest from its labours.

  That absolution! She had heard it before, perhaps too early, certainlytoo much as a matter of course, for actions whose faultiness wasvisible enough, but which involved no true contrition. So little hadit touched her innermost soul, or so little innermost was there tobe touched, that its familiarity had made her spurn it as an emptyinsufficient delusion in her despair in the summer, and catch atthe notion which condemned its utterance by a mere man as vain andpresumptuous. Her careless touch had turned the Golden Key to lead, andonly when she saw it held to the faithful did the gold shine out oncemore.

  There was no pause to think till the mortal struggle was over, but thencame the revulsion, and the peace she had seen so real in her brotherbrought her back to the wildest longing to experience the same, throughthe same means, and yet the reluctance to turn to the ordinary helpsbefore 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.' Iftheir principles were right, as Felix's acceptance proved, of courseit was their own fault that she had not been more good. They shared inher intolerable loathing for whatever was around her, her madness tobe out of sight of everything and everybody, and wretched feeling ofimpatience. The sight of Sister Constance suddenly gave this longingan object. Her old love of St Faith's revived, and therewith thedesire to find a spiritual healer in Mr. Willoughby, the chaplain,who was comparatively a stranger to her, though Mr. Audley had leftCherry under his care, and he had of late become a good deal notedas a director. This was what she wanted to say! Could she but havetalked to Sister Constance, and shown the peculiarity of her case, theinsufficiency of her guides, the really tragic nature of her troubles,she _must_ have obtained the object she had become set upon in thesefew minutes, namely, leaving the dreariness of home by hurrying to StFaith's and Mr. Willoughby, when Lance should return to his business onMonday.

  Cruel Sister, to have postponed such misery to John Harewood's dinner!'Commune with your own heart.' A fine way of refusing confidence! YetAngela was nurse enough to know the need of punctuality in relievingguard, and Sister Constance could not have been spared much longer.Wilmet knew it was Alda's last evening, and must not be allowed todwell on the thought. For poor Alda durst not ask for a respite. Shemust go away with her husband as soon as the funeral was over, for shebelieved Ferdinand Travis was still at hand, and durst not inquire. Shewas still conscious. Nay, most poignant grief of all was the sense thatthe dark noble countenance was dearer to her than when she had ravedabout its beauty, and that it could still make her heart throb wildly.It was a humiliating, involuntary sin, the outcome of the voluntary sinof past years, of those blind heartless manoeuvres to which she lookedback in amazement as she contrasted her actual life with that which shehad thrown away, while watching unconscious manifestations of devotedconjugal affection, such as she had never before missed because shehad never conceived them. Avoidance was all that was possible to her.Her little girls must be her refuge! Was not the man still single, andcould she help feeling a certain satisfaction in the thought?

  Poor Alda! She was up in her sister's room that afternoon when Marildaand Miss Martha Hepburn encountered one another on their daily visit ofinquiry in the cottage drawing-room, and Miss Martha had ventured oncongratulating Miss Underwood.

  'Who told you?' bluntly exclaimed Marilda.

  'I beg your pardon! Indeed--I thought--We heard it on goodauthority--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 shouldnot have been known at such a time.'

  Miss Martha was dismayed, and retreated amid showers of promises ofsecrecy, but with the elation of having confirmed the fact.

  Marilda exclaimed, 'How horrid! Who can have gossiped? Now, John, do mea 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 mouthfull 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 nothelp it. It had all been one long, long misunderstanding, and it cameright of itself as soon as we began to talk to one another. Fernan sayspoor Edgar wished it, and dear Felix knew it, and sent us a blessingthrough Mr. Audley, but we meant no one to know for a month, or till Ihad gone home. It seems so unfeeling.'

  'I do not think it will seem so here,' said John. 'You know Charlie'sproposal rose almost out of Stella's grief for Theodore,' and asMarilda was trying to guess who had spread the report, he added, 'Nevermind. 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 nothave 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 itwhen 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 befair towards the man who once loved her?' thought John, but restrainedhis speech.

  'How long has this been?' asked Alda, presently.

  'I cannot tell. Quite recently, no doubt, but long enough to givepleasure to your dear brother.'

  'Felix knew?'

  'So she says.'

  He did not understand her look of pain as she thought of Felix's cryof indignation on her light avowal of the insinuation which had partedthose two, securing the one for herself and casting the other over tohim, but her womanly instinct strove to hide the pang or excuse it witha half truth.

  'I can't help thinking of my husband's disappointment. He reckoned onher 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 enoughto be shocked at the worldliness of those who have to live up to aposition. However, there is no reason to regret it! They have more incommon than appears at first sight.'

  And she soon escaped. Three lines of truly kind congratulation lay onMarilda's toilette table the next morning. Alda attempted no more--herswas a grief that would not brook the light.

  So morning dawned on the day when the Church was to give the brothersand sisters voice for their farewells to that beloved and honoured headof 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 beenin bondage to Thomas Underwood's views of propriety. Now--so far fromthe seventy-five yards of black cloth bedecking the church, it had notlost one holly wreath, one ivy streamer: the scarlet and white flowerswere fresh, the star of Bethlehem in pale bright everlasting flowersstill stood prominent, and in letters of golden straw the Epiphanypromise:

  '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 pallwith the red cross stretching its arms over the coffin in protectionwas used for the poorest; the plain oak only bore the name and date,and the brothers and friends bedizened themselves with no foolishgloomy streamers or scarfs, as they drew together to follow thefarm-labourers who b
ore what remained of Felix from the steps of thehall door where, four years and a half before, he had spoken forth hispurpose 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 itbetter than aught save the home beyond.

  The Bishop of the diocese had desired to testify his esteem bywelcoming him to the Rest of those who die in the Lord, and Clementwas thus one of the eight brothers and sisters who followed first. Thenearest of all was tacitly allowed to be Geraldine, upon his arm, whilehe led Gerald. Not only was the child his uncle's heir and head of thename, but Cherry and Lance found that to see and know all was best forhim. Poor Edgar's wish that people could be sublimated away had beenin a measure fulfilled in his case as regarded his little son, and theconsequence had been a vague horror and mystery that had haunted himtill he was led to gaze at and kiss his uncle's calm white face, andthen, after long dreamy thought, he had said in a voice of comfort,'Then Daddy was like that.' Kester was there, too, in his father'shand, awed but sharply observant. And besides these, and the nearestconnections 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 sobbingwith the infectious agitation of that class; the big lads, whom he hadtaught on many a Sunday and winter evening, were even more unrestrainedin their grief, and many a rugged old labourer echoed the elegy, 'Wellnow I did reckon never to have seen the last of he, but the likes ofhim was too good for we. I never had a beast out of the ordinar but itwas sure to go the first!'

  Not only Vale Leston was there but almost all the gentry andfellow-magistrates, Sir Vesey Hammond's white head conspicuously, alsoa whole company of familiar Bexley faces. They had given no notice lestthe family should put themselves to inconvenience, but there they allwere, the Mayor, Mr. Bruce, Mr. Jones, Mr. Prothero, and many anotheralso come with old Mr. Harewood and Ernest Lamb, who, poor fellow,looked as if the foundations of the earth had given way with him. Thelate Rector had written his excuses on the score of health, but DoctorRyder was present, and Mr. Audley had been called out to speak to hisold colleague Mowbray Smith, who had come many miles to testify hisgratitude to 'the best friend and truest I ever met, though I wassuch a fool as not to know it at the time.' Of course the Vicar ofSt Matthew's had come early enough to join the family in the morningSacrifice of thanksgiving, and as Robina moved on in the confused mazeof sorrowful faces, she recognised the familiar head of Lord Ernest. Itwas as if Felix had left such a mark on all who came in contact withhim, that none could abstain from testifying honour and gratitude, andyet it had been a very simple life. As he had said himself, he had donenothing but what he felt obliged to do. There was nothing however towhich he had set his hand that was not in a better state than when hehad taken it up.

  So 'his works did follow him,' so had he 'served God in hisgeneration'--as happy a fate as man can have, and those who were olderthan the bereaved brothers and sisters had learnt that however sad itseems to be cut off in the prime of life, with schemes of good allunfulfilled, yet it is like a general dying in the moment of victory,with the cup of tedium, failure, disappointment, and decadence alluntasted.

  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 notonly the Vale Leston choir, but many of those from St Oswald's. Wellmight Felix thus be greeted. Very few were the Sundays, since hisfather first had robed him in his little surplice and told him ofSamuel, that he had not sung his part, he had not even had any longinterval of broken voice, and had been retained during that time forthe sake of his influence. Like everything else, his musical talent hadbeen used primarily for the glory of his Maker.

  What with the sweet sounds, the evergreen wreaths, the festalcolouring, and the flowery crosses and wreaths carried by so many,there was more of grave joy than of grief and wailing apparent afterthe service once began. Sorrow without hope it could not be, solemn asit was when, as Felix himself had bidden, looking up to his Angel withthe trumpet, it was the awful _Dies Irae_ that heralded his way to theopen 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 thinkof her fleet of boats and long for safety in the haven, whither herflag-ship had now attained? Yearningly she bent forward, aided byClement, for her last sight of the coffin and the dear name 'FelixChester Underwood,' never again to be a household call. She hung solong over it that Clement would fain have drawn her back, and as sheresisted, was trying to find voice to bid her remember that 'he is nothere,' when little Gerald, struck perhaps by the words of the hymn, andconnecting it with the earth he had seen and heard dropping in, reachedout 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 thetrust to see 'that countenance pure again,' and to look up instead ofdown.

  So her brothers led her away, but there was no quiet time yet TheBishop had considerately refused to come to the house, but Clement mustof course go and speak to him, thank him, and bear the expression ofhis warm feeling for the family and reverence and gratitude to the manwho had so changed his parish.

  Geraldine had to go to the drawing-room with her sisters, Marilda, andGertrude May, whose right to be present all had felt. Her eyes weredim, her colouring paled, she looked as if she had been weeping eversince they had last met, and she only tried to avoid obtruding herpresence or her grief. Her father soon came for her. He took Cherry'shand, saying, 'My dear, trust an old man. You can't feel it now, butour jewels become dearer in the diadem, and when our hearts go afterthem, 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 goingaway, but before the move to depart, Clement said, 'There are so manyof us that we think all should hear about the property together beforethere 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, descendedto Gerald Felix Underwood under the trusteeship of Clement, JohnHarewood, and Ferdinand Travis. The personal guardianship was reservedto Geraldine with L500 a year until the heir should be of age. If heshould die without children, the succession would of course go toClement, and after him it was entailed on the brothers, or their heirsin due order. Besides this the estate was charged with L500 a year,as an income for each of the sisters who might remain single. On hermarriage each would have L500 down, the annuity of the others remaininguntouched, unless one entered a sisterhood, when L50 per annum shouldbe paid for her. To Lancelot was left unreservedly the whole of theacquisitions at Bexley, house, shares in the business, stock, andPursuivant. There was an annuity of L30 to Sybilla Macnamara, a legacyto Martha, and to the old foreman, and that was all. John and Lancelotwere executors.

  The first feeling was of surprise that Bernard was only mentioned aslast in the entail. Cherry and Lance both turned to him. 'It shall beall 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 hastenif she wished to take leave of her sister. Major Harewood would takeher across at once, and she would be called for at the cottage onthe 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, andentreated, 'Write often, and let me know about you all. I wish we hadbeen more together.'

  Marilda was g
oing to London with her, Sir Adrian was still in ignoranceof the coming blow, and there was nothing in the farewell to Ferdinandto make him expect it, so his scowl at his wife's hand-shake was on theold score. Poor Alda, at least she had her children.

  Their sweet Princess Fair Star! Yes, she must go! Captain Audley waswaiting to drive the young couple to meet the express. They were totake a fortnight's quiet in the Isle of Wight, and then enter on theirnew world. It was time Charlie should have his wife to himself afterall the patience, unselfishness, consideration, and helpfulness thathad sealed him as a true brother, and endeared him the more from thecontrast not only to Alda's husband but to his own father.

  Clement had to be the parental brother to lead the bride to thecarriage. 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 ofhappiness.'

  '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 sodifferent to us!'

  'But that difference is not gloom,' said his uncle; and the 'Oh no' onhis lips, and the bright crystal tears in Stella's eyes were no moregloomy than her diamonds when Felix was musing over them.

  So the others turned back into the house that felt so large andempty, and they so few. Clement tendered an arm to help Geraldineupstairs. Somehow, long as it was since she had leant on Felix, thisaction brought a great sense of change. Clement's aid was the carefulbending tenderness of a very tall man towards a small woman; Felixhad been more nearly on her level; and merry old boasts on this scorecame piteously to the minds of both. The brother, who had borne up sostrongly through all these days of sorrow and suffering, and months ofpain and suspense, found his effort at cheering turn to a sob as hesaid, 'Ah, Cherry, you must make the best of me. I will try to be all Ican, but never, never----'

  'You are not your own self?' said Cherry, just then the braver. 'Havenot 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. 'DearClem, 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 gonefor a little time, you know, and he never did tell you and me to takecare of each other, because he knew it would come naturally. Dear, dearClem, if you weren't Clem already, should not I love you for havingbeen so much the nearest and most helpful to him all this time?'

  'The joy of my life!' murmured Clement in a choked voice, most unlikejoy, as he leant against the door-post quite overcome.

  'You'll tell me all in our long evenings. We will live with him a greatdeal still, and keep him before the eyes of our dear little boy--ourcharge.'

  'Charge! Everything is a charge!' said Clement, wearily. 'How to actor decide without that clear, cool, wise head! To fill his place isimpossible!' Then rousing himself, 'I beg your pardon, Cherry, Ithought I was going to do something to comfort you, instead of making afool of myself.'

  'Making a fool of yourself makes you a great deal dearer and nicer thanif you set up for comforting,' said Cherry. 'You know as well as I dothat nobody can ever do that. Poor, dear old Clem, you are quite wornout, and no wonder, everything has come harder on you than on any oneelse. Sit down and rest;' and as she seated herself she tried to pullhim 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 thankthe 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 goodin shrinking!' said Clement, resolutely rearing himself up, but comingback to kneel on one knee, take another embrace, and say, 'O Cherry, Iam so sorry for you, and you are so good to me!'

  The humility touched her deeply. 'Not good,' she said; 'I want you, youare my own home brother,' and he allowed his wearied head to repose fora few moments on her shoulder as she threw her arm round him. 'Justtell 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 notbeen brave and strong?'

  'I can't say much for that now, Cherry,' he said, 'I must not stay. Ishall not be fit for what has still to be done.'

  She heard him walk across to that untenanted room, and her love forhim was quickened. Trust in his highly principled kindness she hadalways had, but to find him crushed, oppressed, overwhelmed, gave her afellow-feeling for him as she felt him leaning on her; and this was notindeed consolation, but something not entirely removed from it.

  His resolute, evenly-balanced manner, guarding jealously againstwhatever could unnerve him, had however been kept up all along to allthe rest, as perhaps was needed by the exigencies of his situation, andperhaps it helped to actuate Robina in the conversation she was holdingas 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 poorCherry? If Stella were left I should not mind, but no one can tellwhether 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 boysare 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 Cherrymust not have everything thrust on her at once--she who has been alwayspetted and made _his_ darling. Clement will be substantially kind, buthe 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 affectiontriumph over prudence.

  'So I think of writing to Lady de la Poer and telling her not to waitfor me. Indeed, I know who would suit her. I can go and wish them allgood-bye when Wilmet is better, but I must give notice; so of course Itold 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 theknowledge he has silently borne these six months. Both as brother andas priest, he has gone further down with Felix into the valley of theshadow of death than any one else could do, and if the chill of it hasstiffened him, it may be that only so could he serve as a support. Iassure you, Robina, I watched and wondered all last long vacation. Isaw he was unhappy and uneasy about your brother, but only now thatI understand it all do I fully appreciate his self-control and energythrough 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 Ifancy that very perfection hinders him from being the brother poorCherry needs. There! we are not going, of all things in the world, toquarrel about Clement.'

  'Certainly not,' said Will, smiling, 'especially as this conviction ofyours leads you in the very direction I wish, and will cure itself.'

  'I know him so little,' added Robina, in excuse for herself, as shesaw how she had wounded Will's enthusiastic admiration of the veryqualities in which he felt himself the most deficient. 'You know I havenever 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 infor the curacy, and then----'

  'That's the way I am to devote myself to Cherry, eh? No, Bill, wemust be all the more staunch. Mind, the question is not whether youand I can be content in poverty, but whether we will be a drag on ourbrothers, 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 haveyour way. Two years more, and I really think we shall do!' (For Robinakept the account of the investments.)

  'You miser! At least I shall know you are safe here, and of that I amheartily glad. I never could forgive the Repworth folk for being yourmasters.'

  'Very ungrateful!' said Robina. 'I don't know how to think of not goingback to my dear little girls, and their mother!'--and tears came to hereyes, for she could not but feel that home had lost all its brightnessand much of its sweetness.

  'I think,' said Bill, musingly, 'it is wonderful how, with such a setof strong wills as you Underwoods have, you should have all preservedsuch perfect union.'

  'Have we such strong wills?'

  'Do you ask a poor victim like me, whose only chance is in some slightconfusion 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; lookat Angel; look at Lance. Why, his power of resistance had changed thewhole tone of us choir boys before he was thirteen. In fact, I believeit is that strength of character that keeps you harmonious. You don'tworry about straws, or clash, or pother, but know when and to whom togive way with a good grace.'

  'We did,' sighed Robina. 'We could not help it then. Ah! here comesClement. I had better have it out with him at once.'

  She was touched, perceiving the tokens of tears, and still more by hisgratitude when he learnt her intention. 'Thank you,' he warmly said. 'Idurst not ask it of you, but it is an immense relief to me on our dearCherry's account.'

  'Have you been with her? How is she?'

  'Braver and sweeter than I dared hope,' he said, his eyes fillingagain. 'Surely the Communion of saints is beginning to bring herrefreshment 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 calmhimself by a few moments in the Church. There, however, he wassurprised by a low sound of voices, and noiselessly following it up, hebeheld, unseen himself, Mr. Fulmort and Angela in the Lady Chapel, andwent on his way with a heart disburthened of one of its loads.

  Yes. This had been the effect of Sister Constance's words: 'Communewith your own heart.' In the hope, nay, purpose, of at least goingto 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 ina mood to enhance rather than slur over anything she detected. Behold,as she tried herself by the questions so long laid aside, they assumednew force and meaning! The once blunted probes had acquired a sharpnessthey had never had before, and among her many discoveries was that herextreme dislike to having recourse to the Vicar of St Matthew's was,first, because it was Clement's desire, secondly, because, instead ofan interesting penitent with a tragic crime on her hands, she shouldonly come as the naughty girl he had known all her life; and thirdly,not because of his mismanagement, but because he understood her all toowell, and had warned her of the very errors that had eaten into herlife. It was only pride and love of excitement that impelled her toseek a fresh director; and it was the turning point of her life thatwhen the conviction dawned on her she did not turn her back on it, butit so wrought with her as to take her to the Lady Chapel with her firstand most parental spiritual guide on that winter afternoon of mourning.

  At the end of the long interview, as the young moon shone into thetwilight church, while Angela knelt on, humbled, softened, the turbidwaters of her spirit quelled, and a more peaceful sorrow than she hadever 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 thatrepenteth.

  Of course it was Lance, after his duty by his fellow-mourners had beendone, and he had seen them off to Bexley. He had no one to pace thecloister with, and the organ had been the chief solace and exponent ofhis sorrows and his yearnings. Poor Lance, who must henceforth work forhimself instead of his brother, and turn out Pursuivants, for whichat present he only cared because any deterioration therein would betreason to that Editor who had worked at them with loving conscientiousmight. The whole bequest, so justly earned as all felt it to be, washeartless and distasteful; he was disgusted to find himself a man ofsubstance, and not only his fellow-citizens, but Fulbert had distressedhim by congratulations. Fulbert had employed his time at Bexley infalling in love with Lizzie Bruce, and had therefore kept close to herfather all this time, and finally driven him to the station in thedog-cart; and it was rather an effort to Lance to listen amiably tothe raptures of prosperous love; above all, when he had just missedthe glance, hand-pressure and farewell, which however mournful andindifferent this would have probably been, his heart and soul hungeredand thirsted after. He had fancied Dr. May and his daughter would stayfor luncheon, and had missed their departure by exhibiting littleGerald to some of Edgar's old friends, and the loss of the one momenthe had anticipated with a throb of pleasure depressed him more than wasreasonable. And yet!--There was nothing for it but to try to soothe hisspirit with the harmonies that often seemed to him all he cared to livefor, and fortunately there was a musical pupil teacher always lookingabout in the hope that Mr. Lancelot would want his services to blow forhim.

  He played till the bell began for even-song, and, one after another,an unusually full congregation began to drop in, including even twoof the Miss Hepburns. The service was shared between old Mr. Harewoodand Mr. Fulmort, only glad to relieve the three overwrought clergywho had borne the brunt of this Epiphany tide. Clement's paleness anddepression were evident enough now, though still against his will.

  'Angela, my dear,' he said, overtaking her in the hall, as she wasgoing upstairs, 'Wilmet has asked for you to come and help SisterConstance in Alda's place. If you can fetch what you want at once, Iwill put you over.'

  'O, thank you!' she cried, flushing with colour at the unexpectedboon, as well as at the soft gentleness of his tone, which had of latein their hours of nursing been apt to be quick, stern, and decisivetowards her, partly from his own repressed grief, partly from her habitof repelling his advances.

  'You had better let me,' said Lance, as she ran upstairs. 'You arepretty well what Gerald calls used up.'

  'Thank you, I wish to do this,' said Clement. 'O Lance, Dr. May andhis daughter asked especially after you, and told me to give you theirgood-byes. And here,' lowering his voice, 'here is something I wasbidden to give you.'

  Lance looked at the address, and carried it quickly upstairs. It wasone of Felix's neat envelopes with the crest and motto, and the addressto L.O. Underwood Esq., in the familiar writing, just such as thosewhich he had been wont to receive by hundreds. Within was a note with astill 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 thesewords of affection, Angela upon the moonlit river was craving Clement'spardon for all her manifold transgressions against him.

  'My dear,' he answered in a deep, sad, but sweet voice, 'I have quiteas many errors against you for which to reproach myself.'

  Then as they landed on the narrow sward, he put his arm round her andkissed her, and she found his tears raining on her face.

  'My child, I have not done well by you,' he said, 'but I believe ourdear brother has turned your face right again, and I am thankful forit. I think we shall begin a new life towards one another now. Goodnight, and may His blessing be with you.'