Books: The Pillars of the House, V1

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> The Pillars of the House, V1

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Felix came home about five o'clock, and his mother was persuaded to
go to lie down while he amused his father with the account of the
children's exemplary behaviour, and of their kind welcome at St.
Faith's, where he had been kept to dine, feeling, as he said,
'uncommonly queer' at first, but at last deciding, to the great
diversion of his father, that the sisters were a set of jolly old
girls, but not one equal to '_our_ Sister Constance.' Then he had
seen the church, and was almost bewildered with the beauty of the
decorations; and Mr. Underwood, though saying little, evidently much
enjoyed his boy's refreshment and pleasure. He certainly seemed no
worse, and Mr. Audley was allowed, what he had often asked before, to
sit up with him.

But there was much to render it a long, anxious, restless night of a
sort of semi-consciousness, and murmuring talk, as if he fancied
himself at Vale Leston again. However, when Felix crept in, about
four o'clock in the morning, anxious at the sounds he heard, he found
him asleep, and this lasted for two or three hours; he woke
refreshed, and presently said, 'Epiphany! put back the curtain, that
I may see the bright and morning star.'

The morning star was shining in the delicate dawn full in view, and
he looked at it with quiet pleasure. 'Mother,' he said, then
recollecting himself; 'ah, she is resting! Thank you, Audley.'

At that moment a little cry through the thin wall made him start and
flush.

'Is it so?' he murmured; 'thank God! That is well!' But his chest
heaved grievously as he panted with anxiety, and his two watchers
hesitated what to do, until the door was slightly opened, and before
the intended sign could be made to Felix, the breathless exclamation,
'How? what?' brought Sibby's half-scared mournful countenance
forward.

'How is she, Sibby? don't fear to say,' he said, more collectedly.

'Nicely, sir, as well as can be expected; but--'

'The baby? Alive--I heard--'

'Yes, sir; that is--O Sir, it is two; and it would be a mere mercy if
they are taken, as they look like to be--twins, and coming like
this!' Perhaps Sibby was a little more lamentable, because, instead
of looking shocked, he clasped his hands in eager thanksgiving, as he
looked upwards.

Sister Constance followed at the same moment, saying in a far more
encouraging voice, 'She is doing very well.'

'It is another great mercy,' he said. 'Much better than longer
waiting on me. Will these Twelfth-day gifts live? Or do I take them
with me? At least, let me baptize them--now, at once,' he spoke
earnestly. 'My full twelve, and one over, and on Twelfth-day.'

Sister Constance had better hopes of the babes than Sibby, but this
wish of his was one not to be withstood for a moment; and she went to
make ready, while Mr. Audley went down for the little Parian font,
and Felix and Sibby arranged the pillows and coverings. Mr. Underwood
looked very bright and thankful. 'Birthday gifts,' he said, 'what are
they? You have not told me, Sibby.'

'Boy and girl, sir,' she said, 'poor little dears!'

'Jealous for your old twins, Sibby?' he said, smiling.

'Ah! sir, they came in a better time.'

'Better for them, no doubt, but this is the best for these,' he
answered brightly. 'See, Sibby, can't you be thankful, like me, that
your mistress is sheltered from what would try her? I can bear it all
better without her to see.'

Sibby's only reply was a gush of tears, and presently all was made
ready; Geraldine was quietly helped into the room by Edgar, and
placed in her usual station by the pillow, and the boys stood against
the wall, while the two babes, tiny and scarcely animate things, were
carried, each by one of the elder pair and the father, as whitely
robed as if he had been in his surplice, held out his hands, and
smiled with his kindly lips and clear shining blue eyes full of
welcome.

'Has your mother any wishes about names?' he asked. 'Wilmet--what--?'

'No, Papa, I think not;' but her eyes were brimming over with tears,
and it was plain that something was suppressed.

'My dear, let me hear, I am not to be hurt by such things.'

'It is--it is only--she did say, when we came for them, that we were
the children of joy--these are the children of sorrow,' murmured
Wilmet, uttering the words with difficulty.

'I thought so,' he said; then after a brief pause, 'Now, Audley--'

For Mr. Audley said all the previous prayers, though with a voice as
hard to control as Wilmet's had been. Then Wilmet held her charge
close to her father, for, almost inappreciable as the weight was, he
could only venture to lay one arm round that grasshopper burthen, as
with his long thin fingers he dashed the water. 'Theodore Benjamin, I
baptize thee.' Alda brought the other. 'Stella Eudora.' Then the two
hands were folded over his face, and they all knelt round till he
moved and smiled.

'Give them to me again,' he said.

It was for the father's kiss and blessing now.

'They look life-like,' he said. 'You will keep them. Now mind me.
Charge _her_ never to think of them as children of sorrow, but of
joy. She will remember how nearly you were called Theodore, Felix.
Take him as God's gift and mine--may he be a son of your right hand
to you.'

The boy did take the babe, and with a deep resolve in his heart, that
his duty to these helpless ones should be his first thought on earth.
He did not speak it, but his father saw the steadfast wistful gaze,
and it was enough.

Alda ventured to ask, 'Is Eudora a gift too, Papa?'

'Yes. A happy gift. For so she is! Let her be a little Epiphany Star
to you all! Tell Mother that I call them a double joy, a double
comfort! Poor little maid!' and he kissed her again, 'will no one
welcome her, but the father who is leaving her?'

'O Papa! You know how we will love them,' sobbed Wilmet.

'I think I do, my dear;' and he smoothed the glossy hair; but with
love comes joy, you know.'

'It is very hard now,' broke from the poor girl.

'Very, he said tenderly; 'but it will if you make the burthen a
blessing--the cross a crutch--eh, my Cherry? Now, a kiss and go, I am
tired.'

He was tired, but not apparently worse.

Edgar and his three juniors started off directly after church in
quest of ice where they might behold skating, and practise sliding;
and Wilmet, with a view to quiet, actually ventured on the
extravagance of providing them with a shilling, that they might
forage for themselves, instead of coming home to dinner.

She regretted Edgar's absence, however, for when Mr. Bevan came in to
hold the Epiphany Feast in the sick chamber, her father asked for
Edgar and Geraldine, and looked disappointed that the boy was gone.
But he murmured, 'Maybe it is best!' and when the little girl came
in, flushed and awe-struck, he took her hand, and said, 'May not I
have this little one--my last pupil--to share the feast with me?
Willing and desirous,' he smiled as he held her, and she coloured
intensely, with tears in her eyes.

There could be no denial, and his judgment at such a moment could
only be accepted by the Rector; and the child herself durst not say
one word of her alarm and awe. Papa knew. And never could she forget
that he held her hand all the time that she leant--for she could not
kneel--by his bed. Her elder brother and sisters were there too, and
he kissed and blessed each tenderly afterwards, and Sister Constance
too knelt and asked his blessing. Then he thanked Mr. Bevan warmly,
and called it a most true day of brightness. They heard him
whispering to himself, 'Arise, shine, for thy Light is come;' and the
peaceful enjoyment seemed so to soothe him, that he was not, as
usual, eager to get up.

It was only towards the early dusk that a restlessness came on, and
an increase of the distress and oppression of breath, which he
thought might be more bearable in his chair; and Mr. Audley, who had
just come in, began with Felix to dress him, and prepare to move him.
But just as they were helping him towards the chair, there was a sort
of choke, a gasping struggle, his head fell on Felix's shoulder, the
boy in terror managed to stretch out a hand and rang the bell; but in
that second felt that there was a strange convulsive shudder, and--

'Felix!' Mr. Audley's low voice sounded strange and far, away. 'I do
believe--'

The figure was entirely prone as they lifted it back to the bed. They
needed not the exclamation of Sibby to reveal the truth. It was only
an exclamation, it would have been a shriek if Felix had not grasped
her wrist with a peremptory grasp. But that bell had been enough;
there had been a sound of dismay in the very tinkle, and Sister
Constance was in the doorway.

'Felix,' she said, understanding all, 'you must go to her. She heard-
--she is calling you. You cannot conceal it; be as quick and quiet as
you can,' she added, as the stunned boy went past her, only hearing,
and that as through a tempest, the feeble voice calling his name. He
stood by the bedside; his mother looked into his white face, and held
out her hands; then as he bent down, clasped both round his neck. 'He
trusted you,' she said.

He sank on his knees as she relaxed her grasp, and hid her head
beneath the clothes. A few holy words of commendation of the soul
departed sounded from the other room; then at Sister Constance's
touch of his hand, he quitted the room.

Presently after, Felix was sitting in the large arm-chair in the
dining-room, with his sister Geraldine on his lap, his arms round
her, her arms tightly clasped round his neck, her hair hanging
loosely down over his shoulder, her head against him, his face over
her, as he rocked himself backwards and forwards with her, each
straining the other closer, as though the mechanical action and
motion could allay the pain. The table was all over baby-things,
which numerous neighbours had sent in on the first news of the twins
that morning, and which the girls had been inspecting; but no one--
nothing else was to be seen when Mr. Thomas Underwood, on his way
from the station, finding his knock unheard, and the door ajar, found
his way to the room.

'What is this? How is your father?'

Felix raised his face, still deeply flushed, and rising, placed his
sister in the chair.

'What, worse! You don't say so,' said Mr. Underwood, advancing.

'He is gone!' said Felix, steadily, but in an unnatural voice. 'Quite
suddenly. Not very long ago,' he began, but he felt unable to guess
for what space of time he had been rocking Cherry there.

'Dead! Edward Underwood! Bless me!' said Mr. Underwood, taking off
his hat, passing his hand over his forehead, and standing horror-
struck. 'I had no idea! You never sent over to say he was worse.'

'He was not; it came on just now,' said Felix, holding by the
mantelpiece.

He groaned. 'Poor Edward! Well,' and he was forced to put his
handkerchief to his eyes. He spoke more gently after that. 'Well,
this is a sudden thing, but better than lingering on. Your poor
mother, would she like to see me?'

'She was confined last night.'

Bless me! bless me! What a state of things! Have you got any one to
be with you?'

'Yes; a lady from Dearport,' said Felix.

'Humph? Which are you? not my boy?'

'No, I am Felix. O poor Edgar!' he added, still bewildered.

It was at this moment that trampling steps were heard, making Felix
spring forward with an instinct to silence them; but the threshold
the sight of his face brought conviction to Edgar, and with a loud
uncontrollable cry, tired and hungry as he was, he seemed to collapse
into his brother's arms, and fainted away.

'_My_ poor boy!' exclaimed his cousin, coming to Felix's help, and
himself lifting Edgar to the sofa. Of the other boys, Clement ran for
water, Fulbert rushed out of sight, and Lancelot laid his head on a
chair choking with tears.

Felix and Clement were, poor children! used enough to illness to
attend to their brother with a collectedness that amazed their
cousin; and without calling for help, Edgar came shuddering and
trembling to himself, and then burst into silent but agonising sobs,
very painful to witness. He was always--boy as he was--the most
easily and entirely overthrown by anything that affected him
strongly; and Mr. Thomas Underwood was so much struck and touched by
his exceeding grief, especially now that he looked on him as his own
property, that after putting in some disjointed sentences of 'There--
there--You'll always have a father in me--Don't, my boy--I tell you,
you are my son now,'--which to Felix's mind made it more intolerable,
he said, 'I'll take him home now--it will be all the better for him
and for every one, poor lad! So many--'

'The three younger ones were sent to Dearport yesterday,' said Felix;
'but Edgar--'

'To Dearport! Eh! To whom?'

'The Sisters,' said Felix.

A gruff sound followed. 'Come, come, my dear lad, 'tis bad enough,
but I'll do my best to make up to you. It will be much the best way
for you to come out of this,' he added, glancing round the dreary
fireless room, which his entrance had reminded Felix to darken.

'Thank you,' began Felix, not in the least supposing Edgar could go;
'but now--'

'It is not like a stranger,' added his relation. 'Be a sensible lad.
One out of the way is something under the circumstances. Stay--whom
can I see? I will give orders for you,' he added.

'Mr. Audley and Sister Constance are seeing about things, thank you,'
said Felix. 'I'll fetch Mr. Audley,' he added, as another trying
grunt at the other name fell on his ear, and he put his arm round
Geraldine, and helped her away.

Mr. Audley came, having just parted with the doctor, who had
explained the sudden termination as what he had of late not thought
improbable, and further shown that it had been most merciful, since
there might otherwise have been weeks, if not months, of much severer
suffering. He had just looked in at the wife, but she had hardly
noticed him, and he saw no dangerous symptoms about her, except an
almost torpid calmness.

Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Mr. Bevan, and made it clearly understood
that he made himself responsible for all expenses, including mourning
for the whole family. He even offered to have the funeral at Vale
Leston, 'if it were only to shame Fulbert Underwood;' but the wife
was in no state to be asked, and the children shrank from the
removal, so it was decided that Edward Underwood should sleep among
those for whom he had spent his life, and where his children's lot
for the present would be cast.

The cousin carried Edgar back to Centry with him; the boy seemed too
unhappy not to be restless, and as if he were ready to do anything to
leave his misery behind him.

The others remained with their preparations, and with such
consolation as the exceeding sympathy and kindness of the whole town
could afford them. Their mother remained in the same state, except
when roused by an effort; and then there was an attention and
presence of mind about her that gave anxiety lest excitement should
be bringing feverishness, but she always fell back into her usual
state of silence, such that it could be hardly told whether it were
torpid or not.

They looked out that half-finished comment on the Epistle to the
Philippians. It stopped at the words--'Yea, and if I be offered upon
the sacrifice and service of your faith, I joy, and rejoice with you
all.'

Mr. Audley took those words for his text on the Sunday, and, not
without breaking down more than once, read as much of the comment as
there was time for, as the happy-hearted message of the late pastor,
for whom indeed there were many tears shed. It seemed to suit with
that solemn peace and nobleness that seemed like the 'likeness of the
Resurrection face,' bringing back all the beauty of his countenance
as he lay robed in his surplice, with a thorny but bright-fruited
cross of holly on his breast, when his children looked their last,
ere parting with what remained of that loved and loving father.

Poor little Geraldine spent that worst hour of her life sitting by
her mother's bed. She had been helped by Felix to that Feast which
had been spread for the mourners in the church in early morning; but
afterwards she was forced to remain at home, while the white-robed
choir, the brother clergy of all the neighbourhood, and the greater
part of the parish met their pastor for the last time in the church.

There the first part of the service took place; and then--Cherry
could just fancy she could hear the dim echo of the Dies Irae, as
it was sung on the way to the cemetery. It was a very aching heart,
poor child! full of the dull agony of a longing that she knew could
never be satisfied again, the intense craving for her father.

She missed him more really than any of them, she had been so much his
companion; and she was the more solitary from the absence of Edgar,
who had always been her chief partner in her pursuits. His departure
had seemed like a defection; and yet she had reproached herself for
so feeling it when he had run upstairs, on arriving with Mr.
Underwood, looking paler, more scared and miserable, than any of
them; and he was sobbing so much when he took his place in the
procession, that Wilmet had made Felix take Alda, that she might
support him. None of his mother's steady reserve and resolute
stillness had descended to him, he was all sensibility and
nervousness; and Geraldine, though without saying this to herself,
felt as if 'poor Edgar' might really have been nearly killed by the
last few days of sadness, he could bear depression so little. She
could hardly have gone through them but for Sister Constance's
kindness, and that rocking process from Felix, which she and he
called 'being his great baby.' And now, when her mother looked up at
her, held out a hand, and called her Papa's dear little Cherry,
drawing her to lay her cheek by hers on the pillow, there was much
soothing in it, though therewith the little girl felt a painful doubt
and longing to know whether her mother knew what was passing; and
even while perfectly aware that she must not be talked to nor
disturbed, was half grieved, half angry, at her dropping off into a
slumber, and awakening only upon little Stella's behalf. Those few
words to Geraldine had been the only sign that day of perception of
any existence in the world save that of the twins.

So the time went by, and the little bustle of return was heard;
Sister Constance came in, kissed Geraldine, and helped her down that
she might be with Edgar, who was to return with the cousin,
whispering to her by the way that it had been very beautiful. It was
a day of bright sunshine, high wind, and scant sparkling feathery
stars of snow, that sat for a moment shining in their pure
perfectness of regularity on the black, and then vanished. 'So like
himself,' Sister Constance said.

Geraldine found her four elders and the three little boys all
together in the dining-room; and while Wilmet anxiously asked after
Mother, the others, in a sort of sad elation, told of the crowds
present, the number of clergy--Mr. Ryder, too, came home from his
holiday on purpose--the sobbing people, and the wreaths of camellias
and of holly, that loving hands had made, and laid upon the coffin.
And then the last hymn had been so sweet and beautiful, they all
seemed refreshed and comforted except Edgar, who, coming fresh back
to the desolation of the house, was in another paroxysm of grief.

'But, Edgar,' said Alda timidly, 'you like being there, don't you?'

'As if one could like anything now!'

'Well! but, Eddy dear, you know what I mean. It is not bad being
there.'

'Not so bad as being at home. Oh!' and a terrible fit of sobbing came
on, which made the other children stand round rather appalled; while
Felix, hesitating, said,

'It is no good going on in this way, Edgar. Father would say it was
not right; and you are upsetting poor little Cherry.'

'It is worse for him, because he has been away, said Cherry fondling
him.

'Yes,' said Edgar between his sobs 'It did not seem _so_ there.'

'And are they kind?'

'Oh, yes. Marilda let me sit in the school-room, and I had books, and
things to copy; such an angel, Cherry, I'll bring it to you next
time--my copy, I mean.'

Here there was a summons from the other room for Felix.

'Yes,' said Edgar, a good deal reinvigorated by having something to
tell; 'I suppose they are going to tell him what is settled. Mr.
Underwood wrote to the man at Vale Leston, and he won't do anything
for us; but they are going to try for the Clergy Orphan for one of
you two little boys.'

'Oh!' there was a great gasp.

'And about me?' asked Alda.

'You are to come when we all go to London--to meet us at the station.
There's a new governess coming, and you will start both together with
her; and I think you'll beat Marilda, for she knows nothing, and
won't learn.'

'I hope she won't be jealous.'

'I don't think it is in her! She's very jolly.'

'But I can't go till Mamma is better.'

Wilmet felt they were falling into a gossiping kind of way that
jarred on her, and was glad of a summons upstairs.

Mr. Thomas Underwood saw Alda before he returned home, told her she
was his other daughter, and should join them on their way to London;
and he further made arrangements about the christening, contingent,
of course, on the mother's consent, and on the possibility of taking
the very small delicate babies to the church. He made very extensive
promises of patronage for the future, with a full and open heart, and
looked as if he should like to adopt the whole family on the spot.

*** *** ***

For the convenience of our readers we subjoin the first page of the
family Bible.

Edward Fulbert Underwood married August 1st, 1837--Mary Wilmet
Underwood.

Felix Chester . . . born, July 3d, 1838.
Wilmet Ursula )
Alda Mary ). . . " Aug. llth, 1839.
Thomas Edgar. . . . " Oct. 6th, 1840.
Geraldine. . . . . " Oct. 25th, 1841.
Edward Clement . . . " Nov. 23d, 1842.
Fulbert James . . . " Jan. 9th, 1844.
Lancelot Oswald. . . " May 16th, 1846.
Robina Elizabeth . . " Feb. 20th, 1848.
Angela Margaret. . . " Sept.29th, 1851.
Bernard . . . . . " Dec. 1st, 1852.
Stella Eudora )
Theodore Benjamin). . " Jan. 6th, 1854.

CHAPTER V

WORKING FOR BREAD

'Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a nowt when 'e's dead;
Mun be a guvness, lad, or summut, an' addle her bread.'
TENNYSON.

'Tell, little one,' said Mr. Rugg, the doctor, as he found Geraldine
on the landing-place outside her mother's room, and spoke to her in a
voice that to her reluctant ears, as well as to those of Sister
Constance, who followed him, sounded all the more vulgar because it
was low, wheedling, and confidential; 'you are always about the
house, you know everything--what accident has your mamma met with?'

Cherry's face grew set.

'She has, then,' said the doctor, looking at Sister Constance. 'I
thought so. Now, be a good child, and tell us all about it.'

'I cannot,' she said.

'Come, don't be silly and sulk. No one will punish you: we know it
was an accident; out with it.'

'My dear,' said Sister Constance, 'this is a pity. Much may depend on
your speaking.'

Cherry began to cry very piteously, though still silently.

'Yes, yes, we see you are sorry,' said Mr. Rugg, 'but there's nothing
for it now but to let us hear the truth.'

She shook her head violently, and brow and neck turned crimson.

Mr. Rugg grew angered, and tried a sharper tone. 'Miss Geraldine,
this is regular naughtiness. Let me hear directly.'

The flush became purple, and something like 'I won't' came from
behind the handkerchief.

'Leave her to me, if you please,' said Sister Constance gently; 'I
think she will tell me what is right to be told.'

'As you please, Lady Somerville,' said Mr. Rugg, who, since he had
discovered her title, was always barbarously misusing it; 'but the
thing must be told. It is doing Mrs. Underwood a serious injury to
let childish naughtiness conceal the truth.'

Constance put her arm round the little girl, a tiny weight for
thirteen years old, and took her into the room where she had last
seen her father. She was sobbing violently, not without passion, and
the more distressingly because she carefully stifled every sound, and
the poor little frame seemed as if it would be rent to pieces.
'Cherry, dear child, don't,' said Constance, sitting down and
gathering her into her arms; 'do try and calm yourself, and think--'

'He--he--I won't tell him!' sobbed the child. 'He's a bad man--he
tells stories. He said he would not hurt me--when he knew he should
most terribly. Papa said it was very wrong. Papa was quite angry--he
called it deceiving, he did! I won't tell him!'

'My dear child, is there anything to tell? Don't think about him,
think about what is good for your mother.'

'She told me not,' sobbed Cherry, but not with the anger there had
been before. 'No, no, don't ask me; she told me not.'